THE SAME PLACE. THE FOLLOWING MORNING.
_The curtain falls for a moment in the course of the First and Third
Acts._
THE BIG DRUM
THE FIRST ACT
_The scene is a room, elegantly decorated, in a flat in South Audley
Street. On the right, two windows give a view, through muslin curtains,
of the opposite houses. In the wall facing the spectator are two doors,
one on the right, the other on the left. The left-hand door opens into
the room from a dimly-lighted corridor, the door on the right from the
dining-room. Between the doors there is a handsome fireplace. No fire
is burning and the grate is banked with flowers. When the dining-room
door is opened, a sideboard and a side-table are seen in the further
room, upon which are dishes of fruit, an array of ice-plates and
finger-bowls, liqueurs in decanters, glasses, silver, etc._
_The pictures, the ornaments upon the mantelpiece, and the articles of
furniture are few but choice. A high-backed settee stands on the right
of the fireplace; near the settee is a fauteuil-stool; facing the
settee is a Charles II arm-chair. On the left of the room there is a
small table with a chair beside it; on the right, not far from the
nearer window, are a writing-table and writing-chair. Pieces of
bric-a-brac lie upon the tables, where there are also some graceful
statuettes in ivory and bronze. Another high-backed settee fills the
space between the windows, and in each window there is an arm-chair of
the same period as the one at the fireplace._
_The street is full of sunlight._
(_Note: Throughout, "right" and "left" are the spectators' right and
left, not the actor's._)
[ROBERT ROOPE, _seated at the writing-table, is sealing
a letter._ NOYES _enters at the door on the left,
followed by_ PHILIP MACKWORTH.
NOYES.
[_Announcing_ PHILIP.] Mr. Mackworth.
ROOPE.
[_A simple-looking gentleman of fifty, scrupulously attired--jumping up
and shaking hands warmly with_ PHILIP _as the servant withdraws._] My
dear Phil!
PHILIP.
[_A negligently--almost shabbily--dressed man in his late thirties,
with a handsome but worn face._] My dear Robbie!
ROOPE.
A triumph, to have dragged you out! [_Looking at his watch._] Luncheon
isn't till a quarter-to-two. I asked you for half-past-one because I
want to have a quiet little jaw with you beforehand.
PHILIP.
Delightful.
ROOPE.
Er--I'd better tell you at once, old chap, whom you'll meet here
to-day.
PHILIP.
Aha! Your tone presages a most distinguished guest. [_Seating himself
in the chair by the small table._] Is she a _grande-duchesse_, or is he
a crowned head?
ROOPE.
[_Smiling rather uneasily._] Wait. I work up to my great effect by
degrees. We shall only be six. Collingham Green----
PHILIP.
[_In disgust._] Oh, lord!
ROOPE.
Now, Phil, don't be naughty.
PHILIP.
The fellow who does the Society gossip for the _Planet_!
ROOPE.
And does it remarkably neatly, in my opinion.
PHILIP.
Pouah! [_Leaning back in his chair, his legs outstretched, and
spouting._] "Mrs. Trevelyan Potter, wearing a gown of yellow charmeuse
exquisitely draped with chiffon, gave a dance for her niece Miss
Hermione Stubbs at the Ritz Hotel last night." That sort o' stuff!
ROOPE.
[_Pained._] _Somebody_ has to supply it.
PHILIP.
"Pretty Mrs. Claud Grymes came on from the opera in her pearls, and
Lady Beakly looked younger than her daughter in blue."
ROOPE.
[_Ruefully._] You don't grow a bit more reasonable, Phil; not a bit.
PHILIP.
I beg pardon. Go ahead.
ROOPE.
[_Sitting on the fauteuil-stool._] Mrs. Godfrey Anslow and Mrs. Wally
Quebec. Abuse _them_.
PHILIP.
Bless their innocent hearts! _They'll_ be glad to meet Mr. Green.
ROOPE.
I trust so.
PHILIP.
[_Scowling._] A couple of pushing, advertising women.
ROOPE.
Really----!
PHILIP.
Ha, ha! Sorry. That's five, with you and me.
ROOPE.
That's five, as you justly observe. [_Clearing his throat._] H'm! H'm!
PHILIP.
The sixth? I prepare myself for your great effect.
ROOPE.
[_With an effort._] Er--Madame de Chaumie is in London, Phil.
PHILIP.
[_Sitting upright._] Madame de Chaumie! [_Disturbed._] Is _she_ coming?
ROOPE.
Y-y-yes.
PHILIP.
[_Rising._] Confound you, Robbie----!
ROOPE.
[_Hastily._] She has got rid of her house in Paris and rejoined her
people. She's with them in Ennismore Gardens.
PHILIP.
Thank you, I'm aware of it. One reads of Ottoline's movements in every
rag one picks up. [_Walking over to the right._] She's the biggest
_chasseuse_ of the crowd.
ROOPE.
I assure you she appears very much altered.
PHILIP.
What, can the leopard change his spots!
ROOPE.
Her family may still bang the big drum occasionally, and give it an
extra whack on _her_ account; but Ottoline herself----
PHILIP.
Faugh! [_Returning to_ ROOPE.] Why the devil have you done this?
ROOPE.
[_Feebly._] I confess, in the hope of bringing about a reconciliation.
PHILIP.
You--you good-natured old meddler. [_Quickly._] Does she expect to find
me here?
ROOPE.
No.
PHILIP.
[_Making for the door on the left._] I'll bolt, then.
ROOPE.
[_Rising and seizing him._] You shall do nothing of the kind. [_Forcing
him down upon the fauteuil-stool._] You'll upset my luncheon-table!
[_Tidying himself._] You're most inconsiderate; you are positively. And
you've disarranged my necktie.
PHILIP.
[_In a low voice._] How is she looking, Robbie?
ROOPE.
Brilliant. [_Putting his necktie in order._] Is that straight?
Brilliant.
PHILIP.
[_Gazing into space._] Ten years ago, old man!
ROOPE.
Quite.
PHILIP.
It was at her father and mother's, in Paris, that I made _your_
acquaintance. Recollect?
ROOPE.
Perfectly; in the Avenue Montaigne. I had a flat in the Palais-Royal at
the time.
PHILIP.
[_Scornfully._] You were one of the smart set. It was worth their while
to get hold of _you_.
ROOPE.
My dear Phil, do be moderately fair. _You_ weren't in the smart
set.
PHILIP.
No; I was trying my hand at journalism in those days. Dreadful trade! I
was Paris correspondent to the _Whitehall Gazette_. That's why _I_ was
favoured. [_Abruptly._] Robbie----
ROOPE.
Hey?
PHILIP.
You'll scarcely credit it. One evening, while I was at work, Ottoline
turned up with her maid at my lodgings in the Rue Soufflot, sent the
maid out of the room, and proposed that I should "mention" her family
in my letters to the _Whitehall_.
ROOPE.
Mention them?
PHILIP.
Drag in allusions to 'em constantly--their entertainments and so forth;
boom them, in fact.
ROOPE.
Was that the cause of the--the final----?
PHILIP.
[_Nodding._] Yes. The following week her engagement to de Chaumie was
announced.
ROOPE.
[_After a slight pause._] Well, in spite of all this, I'm convinced she
was genuinely attached to you, Phil--as fond of you as you were of her.
PHILIP.
[_Resting his head on his hands._] Oh, shut up!
ROOPE.
Anyhow, here's an opportunity of testing it, dear excellent friend.
She's been a widow twelve months; you need have no delicacy on that
score.
PHILIP.
[_Looking up._] Why, do you suggest----?
ROOPE.
Certainly; and without delay. I hear there's a shoal of men after her,
including Tim Barradell.
PHILIP.
[_With a grim smile._] "Bacon" Barradell?
ROOPE.
[_Assentingly._] They say Sir Timothy's in constant attendance.
PHILIP.
And what chance, do you imagine, would a poor literary cove stand
against a real live baronet--and the largest bacon-curer in Ireland?
ROOPE.
[_Rubbing his chin._] You never know. Women are romantic creatures. She
_might_ prefer the author of those absorbing works of fiction whose
pages often wrap up Tim Barradell's rashers.
PHILIP.
[_Rising._] Ha, ha, ha! [_Giving himself a shake._] Even so it can't be
done, Robbie; though I'm grateful to you for your amiable little plot.
[_Walking about._] Heavens above, if Ottoline married me, she'd be
puffing my wares on the sly before the honeymoon was half over!
ROOPE.
And a jolly good job too. [_Moving to the left, peevishly._] The truth
is, my dear Phil, you're a crank--an absolute crank--on the subject of
the--ah--the natural desire of some people to keep themselves in the
public eye. Mercy on us, if it comes to that, _I'm_ an advertiser!
PHILIP.
If it comes to that, you miserable old sinner, you _are_.
ROOPE.
I admit it, frankly. I own it gratifies me exceedingly to see my little
dinner-parties and tea-parties, here or at my club, chronicled in the
press. And it gratifies my friends also. Many of them wouldn't honour
me at all if my list of guests wasn't in the fashionable intelligence
next morning.
PHILIP.
Oh----!
ROOPE.
Yes, you may roar. I declare I shudder to think of the difference it
'ud make to me socially if I didn't advertise.
PHILIP.
Robbie, I blush for you.
ROOPE.
Tosh! It's an advertising age.
PHILIP.
[_Stalking to the fireplace._] It's a beastly vulgar age.
ROOPE.
It's the age I happen to live in, and I accommodate myself to it.
[_Pacing the room as he warms to his theme._] And if it's necessary for
a private individual such as myself to advertise, as I maintain it is,
how much more necessary is it for _you_ to do so--a novelist, a poet, a
would-be playwright, a man with something to sell! Dash it, they've got
to advertise soap, and soap's essential! Why not literature, which
_isn't_? And yet you won't find the name of Mr. Philip Mackworth in the
papers from one year's end to another, except in a scrubby criticism
now and again.
PHILIP.
[_Calmly._] Excuse me, there are the publisher's announcements.
ROOPE.
Publishers' announcements! I'm not speaking of the _regular_ advertising
columns. What I want to see are paragraphs concerning you mixed up with
the news of the day, information about you and your habits, interviews
with you, letters from you on every conceivable topic----
PHILIP.
[_Grinning._] _Do_ you!
ROOPE.
[_Joining_ PHILIP.] Oh, my dear Phil, I entreat you, feed the papers!
It isn't as if you hadn't talent; you _have_. Advertising _minus_
talent goes a long way; advertising _plus_ talent is irresistible. Feed
the papers. The more you do for them, the more they'll do for you.
_Quid pro quo._ To the advertiser shall advertisement be given.
Newspaper men are the nicest chaps in the world. Feed them gratis with
bright and amusin' "copy," as you term it, and they'll love and protect
you for ever.
PHILIP.
Not for ever, Robbie. Whom the press loves die young.
ROOPE.
It's fickle, you mean--some day it'll turn and rend you? Perhaps.
Still, if you make hay while the sun shines----
PHILIP.
The sun! You don't call _that_ the sun! [_Disdainfully._] P'ssh!
ROOPE.
[_Leaving him._] Oh, I've no patience with you! [_Spluttering._] Upon
my word, your hatred of publicity is--is--is--is morbid. It's worse
than morbid--it's Victorian. [_Sitting in the chair by the small
table._] There! I can't say anything severer.
PHILIP.
[_Advancing._] Yes, but wait a moment, Robbie. Who says I have a hatred
of publicity? _I_ haven't said anything so absurd. Don't I write for
the public?
ROOPE.
Exactly!
PHILIP.
[_Standing near_ ROOPE.] I have no dislike for publicity--for fame. By
George, sir, I covet it, if I can win it honestly and decently!
ROOPE.
[_Shrugging his shoulders._] Ah----!
PHILIP.
And I humble myself before the men and women of my craft--and they are
many--who succeed in winning it in that fashion, or who are content to
remain obscure. But for the rest--the hustlers of the pen, the seekers
after mere blatant applause, the pickers-up of cheap popularity--I've a
profound contempt for them and their methods.
ROOPE.
You can't deny the ability of some of 'em.
PHILIP.
Deny it! Of course I don't deny it. But no amount of ability, of genius
if you will, absolves the follower of any art from the obligation of
conducting himself as a modest gentleman----
ROOPE.
Ah, there's where you're so hopelessly Victorian and out o' date!
PHILIP.
Well, that's my creed; and, whether I've talent or not, I'd rather
snuff out, when my time comes, neglected and a pauper than go back on
it. [_Walking away and pacing the room._] Oh, but I'm not discouraged,
my dear Robbie--not a scrap! I'm not discouraged, though you do regard
me as a dismal failure.
ROOPE.
[_Deprecatingly._] No, no!
PHILIP.
I shall collar the great public yet. You mark me, I shall collar 'em
yet, and without stooping to the tricks and devices you advocate!
[_Returning to_ ROOPE.] Robbie----
ROOPE.
[_Rising._] Hey?
PHILIP.
[_Laying his hands on_ ROOPE_'s shoulders._] If my next book--my autumn
book--isn't a mighty go, I--I'll eat my hat.
ROOPE.
[_Sadly._] Dear excellent friend, perhaps you'll be obliged to, for
nourishment.
PHILIP.
Ha, ha, ha! [_Taking_ ROOPE_'s arm._] Oddly enough--oddly enough, the
story deals with the very subject we've been discussing.
ROOPE.
[_Without enthusiasm._] Indeed?
PHILIP.
Yes. You hit on the title a few minutes ago.
ROOPE.
Really?
PHILIP.
When you were talking of Ottoline and her people. [_Dropping his
voice._] "The Big Drum."
ROOPE.
[_Thoughtfully._] C-c-capital!
PHILIP.
Titterton, my new publisher, is tremendously taken with the scheme of
the thing--keen as mustard about it.
ROOPE.
Er--pardon me, Phil----
PHILIP.
Eh?
ROOPE.
[_Fingering the lapel of_ PHILIP's _coat._] I say, old man, you
wouldn't be guilty of the deplorably bad taste of putting _me_ into it,
would you?
PHILIP.
[_Slapping him on the back._] Ha, ha! My dear Robbie, half the polite
world is in it. Don't tell me you wish to be left out in the cold!
ROOPE.
[_Thoroughly alarmed._] Dear excellent friend----!
[NOYES _enters again at the door on the left, preceding_
COLLINGHAM GREEN.
NOYES.
[_Announcing_ GREEN, _and then retiring._] Mr. Collingham Green.
GREEN.
[_A gaily-dressed, genial soul, with a flower in his button-hole, a
monocle, a waxed moustache, and a skilful arrangement of a sparse head
of hair--shaking hands with_ ROOPE.] How are you, my deah fellow?
ROOPE.
My dear Colly, delighted to see you.
GREEN.
An awful scramble to get heah. I was afraid I shouldn't be able to
manage it.
ROOPE.
You'd have broken our hearts if you hadn't. You know Mackworth?
GREEN.
_And_ his charming works. [_Shaking hands with_ PHILIP.] Haven't met
you for evah so long.
PHILIP.
How d'ye do?
GREEN.
Ouf! I must sit down. [_Sitting on the fauteuil-stool and taking off a
pair of delicately tinted gloves._] The Season is killing me. I'm shaw
I sha'n't last till Goodwood, Robbie.
ROOPE.
Yes, it's a shockin' rush, isn't it!
GREEN.
Haw! You only _fancy_ you're rushed. Your life is a rest-cure compared
with mine. You've no conception, either of you, what my days are just
now.
PHILIP.
[_Finding himself addressed._] Exhausting, no doubt.
GREEN.
Take to-day, for example. I was in my bath at half-past-seven----
ROOPE.
Half-past-seven!
GREEN.
Though I wasn't in bed till two this morning. At eight I had a cup
of coffee and a piece of dry toast, and skimmed the papers. From
eight-thirty till ten I dictated a special article on our modern
English hostesses--"The Hostesses of England: Is Hospitality
Declining?", a question I answer in the negative----
ROOPE.
[_In a murmur._] Quite right.
GREEN.
At ten o'clock, a man from Clapp and Beazley's with some patterns
of socks and underwear. Disposed of _him_, dressed, and by a
quarter-to-eleven I was in the Park. Strolled up and down with Lady
Ventnor and Sir Hill Birch and saw everybody there was to be seen. I
nevah make a single note; my memory's marvellous. Left the Park at
twelve and took a taxi to inquire after Lord Harrogate, Charlie
Sievewright, and old Lady Dorcas Newnham. I'm not boring you?
ROOPE.
Boring us!
GREEN.
Lady Dorcas caught sight of me from her window and hailed me in. I sat
with her for twenty minutes--"Greenie" she always calls me--[_mimicking_]
"Now, Greenie, what's the noos?" Haw, haw, haw! I walked away from Lady
Dorcas's, and was in Upper Grosvenor Street punctually at one. [_To_
ROOPE.] There's been a meeting at the Baroness Van der Meer's to-day,
you know, over this fete at the Albert Hall.
ROOPE.
Ah, yes; I'm to be in Lady Freddy Hoyle's Plantagenet group. I'm a
knight in attendance on King John.
GREEN.
I had a short private chat with the Baroness, and followed her into the
drawing-room. They were still at it when I sneaked out at a side door,
and heah I am.
ROOPE.
Extraordinary! Hey, Phil?
PHILIP.
[_Leaning against the chair by the writing-table, dryly._] Most
interesting.
GREEN.
[_To_ PHILIP, _rising._] I lunch with Roope--[_to_ ROOPE] you'll have
to let me off at three, Robbie--and then my grind begins again.
ROOPE.
[_Throwing up his hands in admiration._] Oh!
GREEN.
Horse Show, two musical parties--Lady Godalming's and Mrs. Reggie
Mosenstein's; then home and more dictation to my secretary. Dine with
Sir Patrick and Lady Logan at the Carlton, and then to the Opera with
my spy-glass. From Covent Garden I dash down to Fleet Street, write my
late stuff, and my day's done--unless I've strength left for Lady
Ronaldshaw's dance and a crush at Mrs. Hume-Cutler's.
ROOPE.
[_Repeating his former action._] Oh! Oh!
[NOYES _reappears._
NOYES.
Mrs. Walter Quebec.
[MRS. WALTER QUEBEC _enters and_ NOYES _withdraws._
ROOPE.
[_Taking_ MRS. QUEBEC's _hand._] My dear Mrs. Wally, how _are_ you?
MRS. QUEBEC.
[_A bright, energetic, fairly young lady._] How'r you, Robbie? Walter
is so grieved; he's lunching at the Auto with Tony Baxter. He did try
to wriggle out of it--[_Discovering_ GREEN _and going to him with her
hand extended._] Oh, I _am_ glad! You're just the man I'm dying to see.
GREEN.
[_Kissing her hand._] Haw----!
MRS. QUEBEC.
Lady Skewes and I are getting up a concert in aid of the poor sufferers
from the earthquake in--what's the name of the place?--I forget--Lady
Skewes knows it--and we want you to say a lot about us in your darling
paper. Only distinguished amateurs; that's where the novelty comes in.
Lady Skewes is going to play the violin, if she can pull herself
together--she hasn't played for centuries--[_seeing_ PHILIP,
_advancing, and shaking hands with him casually_] how d'ye do?--[_to_
GREEN] and _I've_ promised to sing.
GREEN.
Splendid.
ROOPE.
But how captivating!
MRS. QUEBEC.
[_To_ GREEN.] I've sung so seldom since my marriage, and they've had
_such_ a difficulty to lure me out of my tiny wee shell. Would you mind
dwelling on that a little?
GREEN.
Of course not; anything I can do, deah lady----
MRS. QUEBEC.
That's too utterly sweet of you. You shall have full particulars
to-morrow. I wouldn't bother you, but it's charity, isn't it? Oh, and
there's something else I want you to be kind over----!
[NOYES _returns._
NOYES.
Mrs. Godfrey Anslow.
[_The_ HON. MRS. GODFREY ANSLOW _enters and_ NOYES _goes
out again._
MRS. ANSLOW.
[_A tall, languishing woman with a toneless drawl--to_ ROOPE.] Am I
late?
ROOPE.
[_Pressing her hand._] Not a second, my _very_ dear friend.
MRS. ANSLOW.
Can't help it if I am. My car got smashed up last week in Roehampton
Lane, and the motor people have lent me the original ark, on wheels.
[MRS. QUEBEC _comes to her._] Hullo, Esme!
MRS. QUEBEC.
[_Shaking hands._] How'r you, Millicent?
MRS. ANSLOW.
[_Going to_ GREEN _and giving him her hand._] Oh, and here's that
horrid Mr. Green!
GREEN.
My deah Mrs. Anslow!
MRS. QUEBEC.
Horrid! What's he done? [_Sitting in the chair by the small table._] I
consider him a white-robed angel.
MRS. ANSLOW.
I sent him a long account of my accident at Roehampton and he hasn't
condescended to take the slightest notice of it.
MRS. QUEBEC.
Oh, Mr. Green!
MRS. ANSLOW.
[_To_ GREEN.] It's cruel of you.
GREEN.
[_To_ MRS. ANSLOW, _twiddling his moustache._] Alack and alas, deah
lady, motor collisions are not quite in my line!
MRS. ANSLOW.
You might have passed it on to the accident man. Or you could have said
that I'm to be seen riding in the Row evidently none the worse for my
recent shock. _That's_ in your line.
GREEN.
Haw! I might have done that, certainly. [_Tapping his brow._] Fact
is--height of the Season--perfectly distracted----
MRS. ANSLOW.
[_With the air of a martyr._] It doesn't matter. I sha'n't trouble you
again. I've never been a favourite of yours----
GREEN.
[_Appealingly._] Haw! Don't----!
MRS. ANSLOW.
It's true. I was one of the few stall-holders at the Army and Navy
Bazaar whose gowns you didn't describe--[_Seeing_ PHILIP _and nodding
to him hazily._] How d'ye do?
ROOPE.
[_Prompting her._] Mr. Mackworth----
[MRS. ANSLOW _goes to_ PHILIP _and proffers him a limp
hand._ GREEN _retreats to the fireplace and_ MRS. QUEBEC
_rises and pursues him._
MRS. ANSLOW.
[_To_ PHILIP.] I think we met once at my cousins', the Fairfields'.
PHILIP.
[_Bowing._] Yes.
MRS. ANSLOW.
You write, don't you?
PHILIP.
[_Evasively._] Oh----!
ROOPE.
[_Joining them._] My dear Mrs. Anslow, Mr. Mackworth is one of the most
gifted authors of the present day.
PHILIP.
[_Glaring at_ ROOPE.] Tsssh!
ROOPE.
[_To_ MRS. ANSLOW.] Get his books from your library instantly. I envy
you the treat in store for you----
[NOYES _again appears._
NOYES.
Madame de Chaumie.
[OTTOLINE DE CHAUMIE _enters--a beautiful, pale, elegant
young woman of three-and-thirty, with a slightly foreign
air and perfect refinement of manner._ NOYES _retires.
Everybody is manifestly pleased to see_ OTTOLINE,
_except_ PHILIP _who picks up a little figure from the
writing-table and examines it critically._
ROOPE.
[_Hurrying to her and taking her hand._] Ah----!
OTTOLINE.
Robbie dear!
MRS. QUEBEC.
[_Going to_ OTTOLINE.] Oh! [_They embrace._] This is lovely!
OTTOLINE.
[_To_ MRS. ANSLOW, _who comes to her._] Millicent----! [_To_ GREEN,
_who bustles forward and kisses her hand._] How do you do?
MRS. QUEBEC.
[_To_ OTTOLINE.] You didn't stay long at the Railtons' last night,
Ottoline.
OTTOLINE.
I had a headache--mother was so vexed with me----
MRS. ANSLOW.
Headache or not, you looked divine.
MRS. QUEBEC.
A vision!
GREEN.
[_To_ OTTOLINE.] Haw! I hope you saw the remarks about you in this
morning's papah, deah lady.
OTTOLINE.
[_To_ GREEN.] For shame, Mr. Green! Have you been flattering me again?
GREEN.
Haw, haw, haw, haw----!
ROOPE.
[_Standing near_ PHILIP.] Madame de Chaumie----
OTTOLINE.
[_Advancing._] Yes?
ROOPE.
Here's an old friend of ours whom you haven't met for years--Mackworth.
[_She starts and then waits, rooted, for_ PHILIP's
_approach. He replaces the figure carefully and comes to
her, and their hands touch._ ROOPE _leaves them and
engages the others in conversation._
OTTOLINE.
[_To_ PHILIP, _in a low voice, her eyes sparkling._] I had no idea I
was to have this pleasure.
PHILIP.
[_Gently, but without exceeding the bounds of mere courtesy._] Robbie
excels in surprises; he has been almost equally reserved with me. Are
you very well?
OTTOLINE.
Very. And you?
PHILIP.
Very. And Sir Randle and Lady Filson?
OTTOLINE.
Quite well--and my brother Bertram. [_Chilled._] Perhaps you've heard
that I am making my home with them now in London, permanently--that
I've left Paris?
PHILIP.
Robbie--and the newspapers--have told me. It's late in the day to do
it--may I offer you my sympathy?
OTTOLINE.
[_With a stately inclination of the head._] Thank you. And I my
congratulations on your success?
PHILIP.
[_Quietly._] Success!
OTTOLINE.
[_Comprehending._] Ah? _Le public est si bete._ I've read every line
you've written, I believe. [_He bows._] I--I have felt proud to think
that we were once--that we were once--not _des inconnus_.
[_He bows again, and there is silence between them. The
dining-room door opens and_ NOYES _presents himself. A
waiter is seen in the dining-room, standing at the side
table._
NOYES.
[_To_ ROOPE.] Lunch is served, sir.
ROOPE.
[_To everybody._] Come along! Come along, dear excellent friends!
[OTTOLINE _smiles graciously at_ PHILIP _and turns from him._] Lead the
way, dear Mrs. Anslow. Madame de Chaumie! [MRS. ANSLOW _slips her arm
through_ OTTOLINE.] You both sit opposite the fireplace. Dear Mrs.
Wally! Come along, my dear Phil! [_Putting an arm round_ GREEN_'s
shoulder._] Colly----!
[_They all move into the dining-room, and the curtain
falls. It rises again almost immediately. A chair,
withdrawn from the further window, is now beside the
fauteuil-stool, on its right; and the chair which was
close to the small table has been pulled out into the
room, and faces the fauteuil-stool at some little
distance from it. The doors are closed._ MRS. ANSLOW
_and_ MRS. QUEBEC _are taking their departure. The
former is saying good-bye to_ OTTOLINE, _who is standing
before the fireplace; the latter is talking to_ ROOPE
_near the door on the left. On the right is_ PHILIP,
_ready to receive his share of the adieux._
MRS. ANSLOW.
[_Shaking hands with_ OTTOLINE.] Good-bye. You _might_ come on to
Olympia; my sister-in-law's box holds six.
OTTOLINE.
Sorry. I really am full up this afternoon. [MRS. QUEBEC _comes to_
OTTOLINE _as_ MRS. ANSLOW _goes to_ PHILIP. ROOPE _opens the door on
the left and remains there, waiting to escort the ladies to the outer
door._] Can I give you a lift anywhere, Esme?
MRS. QUEBEC.
Thanks; Millicent's taking me along with her to the Horse Show.
MRS. ANSLOW.
[_Shaking hands with_ PHILIP.] Very pleased to meet you again. Ever see
anything now of the Fairfields?
PHILIP.
Never.
MRS. ANSLOW.
No loss. I believe dear old Eustace is off his head.
PHILIP.
Possibly.
MRS. ANSLOW.
[_Tolerantly._] But then, so many people are off their heads, aren't
they?
PHILIP.
A great many.
MRS. ANSLOW.
[_Bestowing a parting nod upon_ PHILIP _and crossing to the open
door._] Sha'n't wait, Esme. It's a month's journey to Hammersmith in
the ark.
MRS. QUEBEC.
[_Kissing_ OTTOLINE.] Good-bye.
MRS. ANSLOW.
[_To_ ROOPE.] Charming lunch. Enjoyed myself enormously.
MRS. QUEBEC.
[_Shaking hands with_ PHILIP _hastily._] Good-bye, Mr. Mackworth.
PHILIP.
Good-bye.
[ROOPE _and_ MRS. ANSLOW _have disappeared;_ MRS. QUEBEC
_follows them._ OTTOLINE _approaches_ PHILIP _slowly._
OTTOLINE.
[_Giving him her hand._] Good-bye.
PHILIP.
[_Bending over it formally._] Good-bye.
OTTOLINE.
We--we're in Ennismore Gardens, you know. [_He acknowledges the
information by a stiff bow. She interests herself in her glove-buttons._]
You--you've chosen to drop out of my--out of our lives so completely
that I hardly like to ask you to come and see us.
PHILIP.
[_Constrainedly._] You are very good; but I--I don't go about much in
these days, and I'm afraid----
OTTOLINE.
[_Quickly._] Oh, I'm sure you're wise. [_Drawing herself erect._] A
writer shouldn't give up to society what is meant for mankind, should
he?
[_She passes him distantly, to leave the room, and he
suddenly grips her shoulder._
PHILIP.
Ottoline----!
[_By a mutual impulse, they glance swiftly at the open
door, and then she throws herself into his arms._
OTTOLINE.
Philip----!
[_Just as swiftly, they separate; and a moment
afterwards_ ROOPE _returns, rubbing his hands cheerily._
ROOPE.
[_Advancing, but not shutting the door._] There! Now we're by
ourselves! [_To_ OTTOLINE.] You're not running away?
OTTOLINE.
[_Confused._] Oh, I--I----
ROOPE.
It's only half-past-three. Why don't you and Mackworth sit down and
have a little talk together? [_To_ PHILIP, _who has strolled to the
further window and is looking into the street._] You're in no hurry,
Phil?
PHILIP.
Not in the least.
ROOPE.
[_Crossing to the writing-table._] I'll finish answering my letters; I
sha'n't have a moment later on. [_Gathering up his correspondence._]
You won't disturb me; I'll polish 'em off in another room. [_To_
OTTOLINE.] Are you goin' to Lady Paulton's by-and-by, by any chance?
OTTOLINE.
[_Again at the fireplace, her back to_ ROOPE _and_ PHILIP.] And Mrs.
Jack Cathcart's--and Mrs. Le Roy's----
ROOPE.
You shall take me to Lowndes Square, if you will. [_Recrossing._]
Sha'n't be more than ten minutes. [_At the door._] Ten minutes, dear
excellent friends. A quarter-of-an-hour at the outside.
[_He vanishes, closing the door. There is a pause, and
then_ PHILIP _and_ OTTOLINE _turn to one another and he
goes to her._
OTTOLINE.
[_Her hands in his, breathlessly._] You _are_ glad to see me, then!
[_Laughing shyly._] Ha, ha! You _are_ glad!
PHILIP.
[_Tenderly._] Yes.
OTTOLINE.
You brute, Phil, to make me behave in such an undignified way!
PHILIP.
If there's any question of dignity, what on earth has become of mine? I
was the first to break down.
OTTOLINE.
To break down! Why should you try to treat me so freezingly? You can't
be angry with me still, after all these years! _C'est pas possible!_
PHILIP.
It was stupid of me to attempt to hide my feelings. [_Pressing her hand
to his lips._] But, my dear Otto--my dear girl--where's the use of our
coming into each other's lives again?
OTTOLINE.
The use--? Why _shouldn't_ we be again as we were in the old Paris
days--[_embarrassed_] well, not quite, perhaps----?
PHILIP.
[_Smiling._] Oh, of course, if you command it, I am ready to buy some
smart clothes, and fish for opportunities of meeting you occasionally
on a crowded staircase or in a hot supper-room. But--as for anything
else----
OTTOLINE.
[_Slowly withdrawing her hands and putting them behind her._] As
for--anything else----?
PHILIP.
I repeat--_cui bono_? [_Regarding her kindly but penetratingly._] What
would be the result of your reviving a friendship with an ill-tempered,
intolerant person who would be just as capable to-morrow of turning
upon you like a savage----?
OTTOLINE.
Ah, you _are_ still angry with me! [_With a change of tone._] As you
did that evening, for instance, when I came with Nannette to your
shabby little den in the Rue Soufflot----
PHILIP.
Precisely.
OTTOLINE.
[_Walking away to the front of the fauteuil-stool._] To beg you to
_proner_ my father and mother in the journal you were writing for--what
was the name of it?----
PHILIP.
[_Following her._] _The Whitehall Gazette._
OTTOLINE.
And you were polite enough to tell me that my cravings and ideals were
low, pitiful, ignoble!
PHILIP.
[_Regretfully._] You remember?
OTTOLINE.
[_Facing him._] As clearly as you do, my friend. [_Laying her hand upon
his arm, melting._] Besides, they were true--those words--hideously
true--as were many other sharp ones you shot at me in Paris. [_Turning
from him._] Low--pitiful--ignoble----!
PHILIP.
Otto----!
[_She seats herself in the chair by the fauteuil-stool
and motions him to sit by her. He does so._
OTTOLINE.
Yes, they were true; but they are true of me no longer. I am greatly
changed, Philip.
PHILIP.
[_Eyeing her._] You are more beautiful than ever.
OTTOLINE.
H'sh!--changed in my character, disposition, view of things. Life has
gone sadly with me since we parted.
PHILIP.
Indeed? I--I'm grieved.
OTTOLINE.
My marriage was an utter failure. You heard?
PHILIP.
[_Shaking his head._] No.
OTTOLINE.
No? [_Smiling faintly._] I thought _everybody_ hears when a marriage is
a failure. [_Mournfully._] The fact remains; it was a terrible mistake.
Poor Lucien! I don't blame him for my nine years of unhappiness. I
engaged myself to him in a hurry--out of pique----
PHILIP.
Pique?
OTTOLINE.
Within a few hours of that fatal visit of mine to your lodgings.
[_Looking at him significantly._] It was _that_ that drove me to it.
PHILIP.
[_Staring at her._] _That----!_
OTTOLINE.
[_Simply._] Yes, Phil.
PHILIP.
Otto!
OTTOLINE.
[_Plucking at the arm of her chair._] You see--you see, notwithstanding
the vulgarity of my mind, I had a deep respect for you. Even then there
were wholesome signs in me! [_Shrugging her shoulders plaintively._]
Whether I should have ended by obeying my better instincts, and
accepting you, I can't say. I believe I should. I--I believe I should.
At any rate, I had already begun to chafe under the consciousness that,
while you loved me, you had no esteem for me.
PHILIP.
[_Remorsefully._] My dear!
OTTOLINE.
[_Raising her head._] That scene between us in the Rue Soufflot set my
blood on fire. To have a request refused me was sufficiently mortifying;
but to be whipped, scourged, scarified, into the bargain--! I flew down
your stairs after I left you, and drove home, scorching with indignation;
and next morning I sent for Lucien--a blind adorer!--and promised to be
his wife. [_Leaning back._] _Comprenez-vous, maintenant?_ Solely to
hurt _you_; to hurt you, the one man among my acquaintances whom
I--admired!
[_She searches for her handkerchief. He rises and goes
to the mantelpiece and stares at the flowers in the
grate._
PHILIP.
[_Almost inaudibly._] Oh, Otto!
OTTOLINE.
[_Wiping a tear from her cheek._] Heigh, dear me! Whenever I go over
the past, and that's not seldom, I can't help thinking you might have
been a little gentler with me--a girl of three-and-twenty--and have
made allowances. [_Blowing her nose._] What was Dad before he went out
to Buenos Aires with his wife and children; only a junior partner in a
small concern in the City! Wasn't it natural that, when he came back to
Europe, prosperous but a nobody, he should be eager to elbow himself
into a respectable social position, and that his belongings should have
caught the fever?
PHILIP.
[_Wretchedly._] Yes--yes----
OTTOLINE.
[_Rising and wandering to the writing-table._] First we descended upon
Paris--you know; but Paris didn't respond very satisfactorily. Plenty
of smart men flocked round us--_la belle Mademoiselle Filson_ drew
_them_ to the Avenue Montaigne!----
PHILIP.
[_Under his breath, turning._] T'scht!
OTTOLINE.
But the women were either hopelessly _bourgeoises_ or slightly
_declassee_. [_Inspecting some of the pieces of bric-a-brac upon the
table._] Which decided us to attack London--and induced me to pay my
call on you in the Rue Soufflot----
PHILIP.
I understand.
OTTOLINE.
To coax you to herald us in your weekly _causeries_. [_Wincing._]
Horrible of me, _that_ was; horrible, horrible, horrible! [_Replacing
an object upon the table and moving to the other side of the room._]
However, I wasn't destined to share the earliest of the London
triumphs. [_Bitterly._] Mine awaited me in Paris, and at
Vaudemont-Baudricourt, as the Comtesse de Chaumie! [_Shivering._]
Ugh-h-h-h----!
[_She is about to sit in the chair on the left when he
comes to her impulsively and restrains her._
PHILIP.
My poor girl----!
OTTOLINE.
[_With abandon._] Ah----!
PHILIP.
My poor dear girl!
OTTOLINE.
It's a relief to me to open my heart to you, Philip. [_He leads her to
the fauteuil-stool._] Robbie won't interrupt us yet awhile, will he?
PHILIP.
We'll kick him out if he does. [_They sit, close together, upon the
fauteuil-stool._] Oh, but he won't! This is a deep-laid plot of the old
chap's----
OTTOLINE.
Plot?
PHILIP.
To invite us here to-day, you and me, to--to----
OTTOLINE.
_Amener un rapprochement?_
PHILIP.
Exactly.
OTTOLINE.
[_Softly._] Ha, ha! Dear old Robbie! [_He laughs with her._] Dear, dear
old Robbie! [_Her laughter dies out, leaving her with a serious,
appealing face._] Phil----
PHILIP.
Eh?
OTTOLINE.
Your sneer--your sneer about me and the papers----
PHILIP.
Sneer?
OTTOLINE.
I detected it. Almost the first thing you said to me when I arrived was
that you'd been gathering news of me lately from the papers!
PHILIP.
[_Gently._] Forgive me.
OTTOLINE.
It's been none of my doing; I've finished with _le snobbisme_ entirely.
[_Pleadingly._] You don't doubt me?
PHILIP.
[_Patting her hand._] No--no.
OTTOLINE.
Nowadays I detest coming across my name in print. But my people--[_with
a little_ moue] they will persist in----!
PHILIP.
Beating the big drum?
OTTOLINE.
Ha! [_Brushing her hair from her brow fretfully._] Oh! Oh, Phil, it was
blindness on my part to return to them--sheer blindness!
PHILIP.
Blindness?
OTTOLINE.
They've been urging me to do it ever since my husband's death; so I had
ample time to consider the step. But I didn't realize, till I'd settled
down in Ennismore Gardens, how thoroughly I----
PHILIP.
[_Finding she doesn't continue._] How thoroughly----?
OTTOLINE.
How thoroughly I've grown away from them--ceased to be one of them.
[_Stamping her foot._] Oh, I know I'm ungrateful; and that they're
proud of me, and pet and spoil me; [_contracting her shoulder-blades_]
but they make my flesh feel quite raw--mother, Dad, and my brother
Bertram! Their intense satisfaction with themselves, and everything
appertaining to them, irritates me to such a pitch that I'm often
obliged to rush out of the room to stop myself from being rude.
[_Impetuously._] And then to have to watch Dad and mother still
pushing, scheming, intriguing; always with the affectation of despising
_reclame_, yet doing nothing--not the most simple act--without a
careful eye to it! Years ago, as I've said, there was an intelligible
motive for our paltry ambitions; but now, when they have _force les
portes_ and can afford to be sincere and independent----! [_Checking
herself._] But I oughtn't to speak of my folks like this, ought I, even
to you whom I can trust! [_Penitently._] It's awfully wrong of me. I--I
beg your pardon.
PHILIP.
[_After a short silence._] What do you intend to do, then, Otto,
ultimately--re-establish yourself in Paris?
OTTOLINE.
[_Drearily._] Paris! Is Paris so full of cheerful memories for me, do
you suppose, that I should cling to it!
PHILIP.
[_Soothingly._] Oh, come----!
OTTOLINE.
I travelled about for some months after I became a widow, and when I
saw Paris again--! [_Starting up as if to rid herself of disagreeable
sensations._] No, my one great desire is to escape from it all,
Phil--[_moving to the chair on the left_] to escape----!
PHILIP.
[_Rising._] Escape?
OTTOLINE.
To alter the whole current of my life, if it's possible, [_sinking into
the chair_] and to breathe some fresh air! [_Fanning herself with her
hand._] Phew-w-w-w!
PHILIP.
H'm! [_Approaching her and looking down upon her._] According to
report, Ottoline, you'd have very little difficulty in--escaping.
OTTOLINE.
[_Glancing up at him._] Report?
PHILIP.
Rumour has it that there are at least a dozen ardent admirers at your
feet, each with a wedding-ring in his waistcoat-pocket.
OTTOLINE.
[_Reproachfully, her eyes meeting his._] Why, have you been listening
to tittle-tattle as well as studying newspaper paragraphs! [_He bows,
good-humouredly._] My dear Philip, allowing for exaggeration, granting
that my _soupirants_ number _half_-a-dozen, which of them would enable
me to fill my lungs with fresh air? Who _are_ they, these enterprising
men----?
PHILIP.
[_Leaving her abruptly and going to the mantelpiece._] Oh, pray don't
ask _me_! I don't know who the fellows are--except--they say--Sir
Timothy Barradell----
OTTOLINE.
[_Lightly but softly._] Sir Timothy! Sir Timothy has only just
succeeded in fighting his way into the world I'm sick and tired of!
[_Shaking her head._] Poor Sir Tim! [_Pityingly._] Ha, ha, ha, ha!
PHILIP.
[_His back towards her._] Otto----
OTTOLINE.
Yes?
PHILIP.
What sort of world would you be willing to exchange for your present
one, my dear?
OTTOLINE.
What sort----?
PHILIP.
What sort--spiritual and material?
OTTOLINE.
[_Resting her elbow upon the arm of her chair and her chin upon her
hand, musingly._] Oh, I believe any world would content me that's
totally different from the world I've lived in so long; any world that
isn't flat and stale and stifling; that isn't made up of shams, and
petty aims and appetites; any world that--well, such a world as you
used to picture, Phil, when you preached your gospel to a selfish,
common girl under the chestnuts in the Allee de Longchamp and the
Champs-Elysees! [_Half laughing, half sighing._] Ha, la, la, la!
[_Again there is a pause, and then he walks to the
further window and gazes into the street once more._
PHILIP.
[_In a low voice._] Ten years ago, Otto!
OTTOLINE.
Ten years ago!
PHILIP.
[_Partly in jest, partly seriously._] Do the buds still sprout on those
trees in the Allee de Longchamp and the Champs-Elysees, can you tell
me?
OTTOLINE.
[_Falling in with his humour._] Ha, ha! Every spring, _cher ami_,
regularly.
PHILIP.
And the milk at the Cafe d'Armenonville and the Pre-Catelan--is it
still rich and delectable?
OTTOLINE.
To the young, I assume; scarcely to the aged widow----!
PHILIP.
Or the grey-haired scribbler! Ha, ha, ha, ha!
OTTOLINE.
Ha, ha, ha, ha----!
[_He turns and advances to her slowly, looking at her
fixedly and earnestly._
PHILIP.
Ottoline--I wonder whether you'd care to walk under those trees with me
again, for sentiment's sake, some fine day in the future----!
OTTOLINE.
[_Staring at him._] C-care----?
PHILIP.
And if you would, whether I ought to tempt you to risk it!
OTTOLINE.
[_Rising, smiling but discomposed._] To--to risk finding that _le lait
n'est pas cremeux_, do you mean?
PHILIP.
[_Tenderly._] To risk even that. [_Drawing nearer to her._] Otto----!
OTTOLINE.
I--I should be delighted--if--if ever----
PHILIP.
No, no; not as friends, Otto--save in the best sense----
OTTOLINE.
[_Faintly._] I--I don't----
PHILIP.
As husband and wife. [_She stands quite still._] Husband and wife! Some
day when I've achieved a solid success; when I've captured the great
public, and can come to you, not as a poor, struggling writer, but
holding my prizes in both hands!
OTTOLINE.
[_Putting her hand to her forehead._] It--it's not too late, is it?
PHILIP.
[_Recoiling._] Too late--for me--to be successful?
OTTOLINE.
[_Passionately._] Oh, my God, don't say that to me--[_going to him, and
clinging to him_] too late for me to recover a little of what I've
lost!
PHILIP.
[_Pressing her to him._] Ah! Too late for neither of us. It's a
bargain?
OTTOLINE.
Yes--yes; but----
PHILIP.
But----?
OTTOLINE.
[_Her head drooping._] Must it be--_some_ day? [_Piteously._] _Some_
day!
PHILIP.
There are signs in the sky; the day isn't far distant!
OTTOLINE.
I--I've money, Philip----
PHILIP.
H'sssh! [_Frowning._] Ottoline!
OTTOLINE.
_Ah, je vois que votre orgueil est plus fort que votre amour!_
PHILIP.
Ha, ha! _Peut-etre; je ne m'en defends pas._ You consent?
OTTOLINE.
[_Pouting._] I may let my people know of the arrangement, may I not?
You'll see them?
PHILIP.
My dear, what would be gained by that _now_?
OTTOLINE.
It would enable you to come often to Ennismore Gardens, and have cosy
teas with me in my room. We couldn't be--what we _are_--on the sly
indefinitely; it's impracticable. There'll be a storm at first, but it
will soon blow over. [_Making a wry face._] Still, if you'd rather----
PHILIP.
No, no; I'll see them, if you wish me to. [_Nodding._] We'll be open
and above-board from the start.
OTTOLINE.
Ha, ha! [_Sighing happily._] Ah-h-h-h!
PHILIP.
[_His tone changing to one of misgiving._] Ah, Otto, I begin to be
afraid that I oughtn't--that I oughtn't to have spoken to you----
OTTOLINE.
Why?
PHILIP.
[_Gravely._] You will never be patient--you'll never be content to
wait, if need be!
OTTOLINE.
Content, no. But _patient_! [_In a whisper._] Shall I tell you a
secret?
PHILIP.
Well?
OTTOLINE.
I've been waiting--waiting for you--in my dreams--for ten years!
PHILIP.
[_Ardently._] Otto----!
OTTOLINE.
Isn't _that_ patience?
[_Their lips meet in a lingering kiss. The handle of the
door on the left is heard to rattle. Looking at the
door, they draw back from one another. The handle
rattles again._
PHILIP.
It's that idiot Robbie.
OTTOLINE.
Ha, ha, ha, ha----!
[_The door opens, and_ ROOPE _appears, with an air of
unconcern._
ROOPE.
[_Humming._] Tra, lal, lal, la----! _That's_ done, dear excellent
friends! [_Closing the door, and coming forward._] Upon my word,
letters are the curse of one's existence----!
OTTOLINE.
Ha, ha----! [_Seizing him._] Robbie----!
ROOPE.
[_Startled._] Hey?
OTTOLINE.
I can't take you to Lady Paulton's--or anywhere else. Philip and I are
going to spend the rest of the afternoon here, if you'll let us--and
talk--and talk----! [_Suddenly embracing him, and kissing him upon the
cheek._] Ah! _Que vous etes gentil! Merci--merci--merci----!_ [_Sitting
in the chair on the left and unpinning her hat._] Ha, ha, ha, ha----!
ROOPE.
[_Turning to_ PHILIP, _his eyes bolting._] Phil----!
PHILIP.
[_Nodding._] Yes. [_Wringing_ ROOPE_'s hand._] Much obliged, Robbie.
END OF THE FIRST ACT
THE SECOND ACT
_The scene is a morning-room, richly furnished and decorated, in a
house in Ennismore Gardens. The walls are of panelled wood for
two-thirds of their height, the rest being covered with silk. In the
wall at the back, between the centre and the left-hand corner, there is
a handsome double-door opening upon another door, covered in thick
cloth, which is supposed to give admittance to the library. On the
right, in a piece of wall running obliquely towards the spectator from
the back wall to the right-hand wall, is a companion double-door to
that on the left, with the difference that the panels of the upper part
of this door are glazed. A silk curtain obscures the glazed panels to
the height of about seven feet from the floor, and above the curtain
there is a view of a spacious hall. When the glazed door is opened, it
is seen that the hall is appropriately furnished. A window is at the
further end of it, letting in light from the street, and on the right
of the window there is a lofty screen arranged in such a manner as to
suggest that it conceals the front door of the house._
_The fireplace, where a bank of flowers hides the grate, is in the
left-hand wall of the room. On the further side of the fireplace there
is an armchair, and before the fireplace a settee. Behind the settee,
also facing the fireplace, are a writing-table and chair; close to the
further side of the writing-table is a smaller chair; and at the nearer
end of the settee, but at some distance from it, stands a low-backed
arm-chair which is turned in the direction of the door on the right._
_On the other side of the room, facing the spectator and following the
line of the oblique wall, is a second settee. On the left of this
settee is an arm-chair, on the right a round table and another chair.
Books and periodicals are strewn upon the table. Against the wall at
the back, between the doors, are an oblong table and a chair; and other
articles of furniture and embellishment--cabinets of various kinds,
jardinieres, mirrors, lamps, etc., etc.--occupy spaces not provided for
in this description._
_Among other objects upon the oblong table are some framed photographs,
conspicuously displayed, of members of the Royal Family, and a
book-rack containing books of reference._
_It is daylight._
[MISS TRACER, _a red-haired, sprightly young lady, is
seated upon the settee on the right, turning the leaves
of a picture-paper. A note-book, with a pencil stuck in
it, lies by her side. There is a knock at the door on
the left._
MISS TRACER.
[_Calling out._] Eh?
[_The door opens and_ LEONARD WESTRIP _appears. He
carries a pile of press-cuttings._
WESTRIP.
[_A fresh-coloured, boyish young man._] I beg your pardon----[_seeing
that_ MISS TRACER _is alone_] oh, good morning.
MISS TRACER.
Good morning.
WESTRIP.
[_Entering and closing the door._] Lady Filson isn't down yet?
MISS TRACER.
No. [_Tossing the picture-paper onto the round table._] She didn't get
to bed till pretty late last night, I suspect.
WESTRIP.
[_Advancing._] I thought she'd like to look through these. [_Showing_
MISS TRACER _the press-cuttings._] From the press-cutting agency.
MISS TRACER.
[_Picking up her note-book and rising._] You bet she would!
WESTRIP.
[_Handing her the press-cuttings._] Let me have them back again,
please. Sir Randle hardly had time to glance at them before he went
out.
MISS TRACER.
[_Inquisitively, elevating her eyebrows._] He's out very early?
WESTRIP.
Yes; he's gone to a memorial service.
MISS TRACER.
Another! [_With a twinkle._] That's the third this month.
WESTRIP.
So it is. I'm awfully sorry for him.
MISS TRACER.
[_Laughing slyly._] He, he, he! Ho, ho!
WESTRIP.
[_Surprised._] What is there to laugh at, Miss Tracer?
MISS TRACER.
You don't believe he has ever really known half the people he mourns,
do you?
WESTRIP.
Not known them!
MISS TRACER.
[_Crossing to the writing-table and laying the press-cuttings upon
it._] Guileless youth! Wait till you've breathed the air of this
establishment a little longer.
WESTRIP.
[_Puzzled._] But if he hasn't known them, why should he----?
MISS TRACER.
For the sake of figuring among a lot of prominent personages, of
course.
WESTRIP.
[_Incredulously._] Oh, Miss Tracer!
MISS TRACER.
Gospel. [_Taking up the press-cuttings and looking through them._] Many
are the sympathetic souls who are grief-stricken in these days for the
same reason. Here we are! [_Reading from a cutting._] Late Viscount
Petersfield ... memorial service ... St. Margaret's, Westminster ...
among those present ... h'm, h'm, h'm ... Sir Randle Filson ... wreaths
were sent by ... h'm, h'm, h'm, h'm ... Sir Randle and Lady Filson!
[_Replacing the press-cuttings upon the table._] Ha, ha, ha, ha--!
[_Checking herself and turning to_ WESTRIP.] Our conversation is
strictly private, Mr. Westrip?
WESTRIP.
[_Somewhat disturbed._] Strictly.
MISS TRACER.
[_Smiling at him winningly and moving to the settee before the
fireplace._] You're a nice boy; I'm sure you wouldn't make mischief.
[_Sinking on to the settee with a yawn._] Oh! Oh, I'm so weary!
WESTRIP.
Weary? Before you've begun your morning's work!
MISS TRACER.
_Before_ I've begun it! I had a parade downstairs in the servants' hall
at a quarter-to-ten.
WESTRIP.
Parade?
MISS TRACER.
We've two new women in the house who are perfect idiots. They _can't_
remember to say "yes, my lady" and "no, my lady" and "very good, my
lady" whenever Lady Filson speaks to them. One of them actually
addressed her yesterday as "ma'am." I wonder the roof didn't fall in.
WESTRIP.
[_Meditatively._] I've noticed that Sir Randle and Lady Filson have a
great relish for being Sir'd and Lady'd.
MISS TRACER.
Ha, ha! Rather! [_Over her shoulder._] _You_ take a friendly hint. If
your predecessor had Sir Randle'd and Lady Filson'd them more
frequently, you wouldn't be standing in his shoes at this moment.
WESTRIP.
[_In the middle of the room, his hands in his pockets._] Why _was_ Sir
Randle knighted, do you know?
MISS TRACER.
Built a large drill-hall for the Territorials near his country place at
Bramsfold.
WESTRIP.
[_Innocently._] Oh, is he interested in the Territorials?
MISS TRACER.
[_Partly raising herself._] Interested in the Territorials! How simple
you are! He cares as much for the Territorials as I care for snakes.
[_Kneeling upon the settee and resting her arms on the back of it,
talkatively._] The drill-hall was _her_ notion; she engineered the
whole affair.
WESTRIP.
[_Opening his eyes wider and wider._] Lady Filson?
MISS TRACER.
[_Nodding._] Her maid's my informant. A few years ago he was growing
frightfully down-in-the-mouth. He fancied he'd got stuck, as it
were--that everybody was getting an honour but himself. So the blessed
shanty was run up in a devil of a hurry--excuse my Greek; and as soon
as it was dry, Mrs. Filson, as she then was, wrote to some big-wig or
other--without her husband's knowledge, she explained--and called
attention to the service he'd rendered to the cause of patriotism.
Lambert saw the draft of the letter on her mistress's dressing-table.
[_Shaking with laughter._] Ho, ho, ho! And what d'ye think?
WESTRIP.
W-well?
MISS TRACER.
The corrections were in _his_ handwriting!
WESTRIP.
[_Shocked._] In Sir Randle's----!
MISS TRACER.
[_Jumping up._] Phiou! I'm fearfully indiscreet. [_Going to_ WESTRIP
_and touching his coat-sleeve._] Between ourselves, Mr. Westrip!
WESTRIP.
[_Moving to the round table._] Quite--quite.
MISS TRACER.
[_Following him._] Oh, they're not a bad sort, by any means, if you
just humour them a bit. We all have our little weaknesses, haven't we?
I've mine, I confess.
WESTRIP.
They've both been excessively kind to _me_. [_Turning to her._] And as
for Madame de Chaumie----
MISS TRACER.
Oh, she's a dear--a regular dear!
WESTRIP.
[_Fervently._] By Jove, isn't she!
MISS TRACER.
But then, _my_ theory is that she was changed at her birth. _She's_ not
a genuine Filson, I'll swear. [_Suddenly walking away from him._] H'sh!
[LADY FILSON, _a handsome, complacent woman of about
fifty-seven, enters from the hall._
LADY FILSON.
[_Who carries a hand-bag crammed with letters, cards of invitation,
etc._] Good morning.
MISS TRACER _and_ WESTRIP.
Good morning, Lady Filson.
LADY FILSON.
[_Closing the door and advancing._] Oh, Mr. Westrip, I wish you'd try
to find the last number of the _Trifler_. It must have been taken out
of my bedroom by one of the servants.
WESTRIP.
[_Searching among the periodicals on the round table._] Certainly, Lady
Filson.
MISS TRACER.
Oh, Lady Filson, don't keep that horrid snapshot of you and Sir Randle!
It's _too_ unflattering.
LADY FILSON.
[_At the writing-table._] As if that mattered! So are the portraits of
Lord and Lady Sturminster on the same page. [_Sitting at the table and
emptying her bag._] These absurd things give Sir Randle and me a hearty
laugh; that's why I preserve them.
WESTRIP.
It isn't here. [_Going to the glazed door._] I'll hunt for it
downstairs.
LADY FILSON.
Thank you. [_Discovering the pile of press-cuttings._] What's this?
[_Affecting annoyance._] Not more press-cuttings! [_Beginning to devour
the cuttings._] Tcht, tcht, tcht!
[_As_ WESTRIP _reaches the door,_ BERTRAM FILSON
_enters. He is wearing riding-dress._
BERTRAM.
[_A conceited, pompous young man of thirty._] Good morning, Mr.
Westrip.
WESTRIP.
Good morning, Mr. Filson.
[WESTRIP _goes out, closing the door._
BERTRAM.
[_To_ MISS TRACER.] Good morning, Miss Tracer.
MISS TRACER.
[_Who has seated herself in the chair at the further side of the
writing-table--meekly._] Good morning.
LADY FILSON.
[_Half turning to_ BERTRAM, _the press-cuttings in her hand._] Ah, my
darling! Was that you I saw speaking to Underwood as I came through the
hall?
BERTRAM.
Yes, mother dear. [_Bending over her and kissing her._] How are you?
LADY FILSON.
[_Dotingly._] Enjoyed your ride, my pet?
BERTRAM.
Fairly, mother.
LADY FILSON.
Only fairly?
BERTRAM.
[_Shutting his eyes._] Such an appalling crowd of ordinary people in
the Row, I mean t'say.
LADY FILSON.
How dreadful for you! [_Giving him the press-cuttings._] Sit down, if
you're not too warm, and look at this rubbish while I talk to Miss
Tracer.
BERTRAM.
Press-cuttings?
LADY FILSON.
Isn't it strange, the way the papers follow all our doings!
BERTRAM.
Not in the least, mother. [_Sitting upon the settee on the right and
reading the press-cuttings._] I mean t'say, I consider it perfectly
right and proper.
LADY FILSON.
[_Sorting her letters and cards--to_ MISS TRACER.] There's not much
this morning, Miss Tracer. [_Handing some letters to_ MISS TRACER.]
_You_ can deal with these.
MISS TRACER.
Thank you, Lady Filson.
LADY FILSON.
[_Reading a letter._] Lady Skewes and Mrs. Walter Quebec ... arranging
a concert in aid of ... [_sighing_] tickets, of course!... what tiring
women!... [_turning the sheet_] oh!... may they include me in their
list of patronesses?... Princess Cagliari-Tamponi, the Countess of
Harrogate, the Viscountess Chepmell, Lady Kathleen Tring ... [_laying
the letter aside_] delighted. [_Heaping together the cards and the rest
of the letters._] I must answer those myself. [_To_ MISS TRACER.]
That's all. [MISS TRACER _rises._] Get on with the invitations for July
the eighth as quickly as you can.
MISS TRACER.
[_Going to the glazed door._] Yes, Lady Filson.
LADY FILSON.
[_Turning._] Miss Tracer----
MISS TRACER.
[_Halting._] Yes, Lady Filson?
LADY FILSON.
I think Madame de Chaumie wants you to do some little commissions for
her. Kindly see her before you go to your room.
BERTRAM.
[_To_ MISS TRACER, _looking up._] No, no; don't.
LADY FILSON.
[_To_ BERTRAM.] Not?
BERTRAM.
My sister is engaged, mother.
LADY FILSON.
Engaged?
BERTRAM.
With Sir Timothy Barradell.
LADY FILSON.
Oh--? [_To_ MISS TRACER.] By-and-by, then.
MISS TRACER.
Yes, Lady Filson.
[MISS TRACER _departs, closing the door._
LADY FILSON.
[_To_ BERTRAM, _eagerly._] Sir Timothy----!
BERTRAM.
He called half-an-hour ago, mother, Underwood tells me, with a note for
Ottoline.
LADY FILSON.
From himself?
BERTRAM.
Presumably; and Dilworth came down and took him up to her boudoir.
LADY FILSON.
[_Rising._] An unusual time of day for a call! [_Approaching_ BERTRAM
_and speaking under her breath._] Are matters coming to a head between
them, my dear boy?
BERTRAM.
Don't ask _me_, mother. [_Rising._] You are as capable of forming an
opinion as I am, I mean t'say.
LADY FILSON.
I've a feeling that _something_ is in the air. He positively shadowed
her last night at the Gorhams'!
BERTRAM.
[_Knitting his brows._] I admit I should prefer, if my sister contemplates
marrying again, that her choice fell on one of the others.
LADY FILSON.
Mr. Trefusis--or George Delacour----?
BERTRAM.
Even Trevor Wilson. [_Wincing._] The idea of a merchant brother-in-law
doesn't appeal to me very strongly, I mean t'say.
LADY FILSON.
Still, a baronet----!
BERTRAM.
And I suppose----?
LADY FILSON.
Oh, enormously!
BERTRAM.
[_Magnanimously._] Anyhow, my dear mother, if Ottoline is fond of the
man, I promise you that not a murmur from me shall mar their happiness.
LADY FILSON.
[_Tenderly, pinching his chin._] My darling!
BERTRAM.
[_With a shiver._] I'm afraid I _am_ getting a little chilled; [_giving
her the press-cuttings_] I'll go and change.
LADY FILSON.
Oh, my pet, run away at once!
[_She moves to the settee on the right. He pauses to
gaze at her._
BERTRAM.
You look exceedingly handsome this morning, mother.
LADY FILSON.
[_Gratified._] Do I, Bertram? [_Seating herself upon the settee, and
again applying herself to the press-cuttings, as_ BERTRAM _goes to the
glazed door._] In spite of my late hours!
BERTRAM.
[_Opening the door._] Here's my father----
[SIR RANDLE FILSON _enters, dressed in mourning. He is a
man of sixty-three, of commanding presence, with a head
resembling that of Alexandre Dumas Fils in the portrait
by Meissonier, and a bland, florid manner. He seems to
derive much satisfaction from listening to the rich
modulations of his voice._
SIR RANDLE.
Bertram, my boy! [_Kissing him upon the cheek._] Been riding, eh?
BERTRAM.
Yes. I'm just going to change, father.
SIR RANDLE.
That's right; don't risk catching cold, whatever you do. [_Seeing_ LADY
FILSON _and coming forward._] Ah, your dear mother _is_ down!
[BERTRAM _goes out, closing the door._
LADY FILSON.
[_Beaming upon_ SIR RANDLE.] You haven't been long, Randle.
SIR RANDLE.
[_A cloud overshadowing his face._] I didn't remain for the Dead March,
Winnie. [_Taking off his black gloves._] I need hardly have troubled to
go at all, as it turned out.
LADY FILSON.
Why, dear?
SIR RANDLE.
The sad business was most abominably mismanaged. No reporters.
LADY FILSON.
No reporters!
SIR RANDLE.
Not a single pressman in the porch. [_Blowing into a glove._] Pfhh!
Poor old Macfarlane! [_Pulling at his second glove._] The public will
never learn the names of those who assembled, at serious inconvenience
to themselves, to pay respect to his memory.
LADY FILSON.
Shocking!
SIR RANDLE.
[_Blowing._] Pfhh! [_Folding the gloves neatly._] I am almost glad, in
the circumstances, that I didn't regard it as an event which laid me
under an obligation to send flowers.
LADY FILSON.
[_With a change of tone._] Er--Randle----
SIR RANDLE.
[_Putting his gloves into his tail-pocket._] Yes, dear.
LADY FILSON.
[_Significantly._] Sir Timothy is upstairs.
SIR RANDLE.
Sir Timothy Barradell?
LADY FILSON.
[_Nodding._] With Ottoline, in her sitting-room.
SIR RANDLE.
Indeed?
LADY FILSON.
He brought a note for her half-an-hour ago, evidently asking her to
receive him.
SIR RANDLE.
[_Going to_ LADY FILSON.] An early call!
LADY FILSON.
Extremely.
SIR RANDLE.
[_Sitting near her, in the arm-chair on the left of the settee, and
pursing his lips._] It may mean nothing.
LADY FILSON.
Oh, nothing.
SIR RANDLE.
[_Examining his nails._] A nice, amiable fellow.
LADY FILSON.
Full of fine qualities, if I'm any judge of character.
SIR RANDLE.
None the worse for being self-made, Winnie.
LADY FILSON.
Not in _my_ estimation.
SIR RANDLE.
H'm, h'm, h'm, h'm----!
LADY FILSON.
[_Softly._] It wouldn't _sound_ bad, Randle.
SIR RANDLE.
[_Leaning back in his chair and closing his eyes._] "Lady Barradell."
LADY FILSON.
[_In the same way._] "Lady Barradell."
SIR RANDLE.
[_In a murmur, but with great gusto._] "A marriage is arranged and will
shortly take place between Sir Timothy Barradell, Bart., of 16, The
Albany, and Bryanstown Park, County Wicklow, and Ottoline, widow of the
late Comte de Chaumie, only daughter of Sir Randle and Lady Filson, of
71, Ennismore Gardens, and Pickhurst, Bramsfold, Sussex."
LADY FILSON.
[_After a short pause, in a low voice._] Darling Ottoline! What a
wedding she shall have!
[_Again there is a pause, and then_ SIR RANDLE _leaves
his chair and seats himself beside_ LADY FILSON.
SIR RANDLE.
[_Putting his arm round her, fondly._] Mother!
[_They look at one another, and he draws her to him and
kisses her. As he does so, the glazed door opens and_
WESTRIP _returns, carrying an illustrated-weekly._ LADY
FILSON _rises hastily and goes to the writing-table._
WESTRIP.
[_Handing her the paper._] It was in the servants' hall, Lady Filson.
LADY FILSON.
[_Laying the paper and the press-cuttings upon the writing-table, and
sitting at the table and busying herself with her letters._] Thank you
so much.
WESTRIP.
[_To_ SIR RANDLE.] Are you ready for me now, Sir Randle?
SIR RANDLE.
[_Abstractedly._] Er--is there anything of grave importance to-day, Mr.
Westrip? I forget.
WESTRIP.
[_Coming to him._] Boxfield and Henderson, the photographers, are
anxious to photograph you and Lady Filson for their series of "Notable
People," Sir Randle.
SIR RANDLE.
[_Rolling his head from side to side._] Oh! Oh, dear; oh, dear!
LADY FILSON.
[_Wearily._] Oh, dear!
SIR RANDLE.
_How_ we are pestered, Lady Filson and I!
LADY FILSON.
Terrible!
SIR RANDLE.
No peace! No peace!
LADY FILSON.
Or privacy.
WESTRIP.
[_Producing a note-book from his pocket._] They will attend here any
morning convenient to you and Lady Filson, Sir Randle. It won't take
ten minutes.
SIR RANDLE.
[_To_ LADY FILSON, _resignedly._] Winnie----?
LADY FILSON.
[_Entering the appointment on a tablet._] Tuesday at eleven.
SIR RANDLE.
[_To_ WESTRIP.] Remind me.
WESTRIP.
[_Writing in his note-book._] Yes, Sir Randle.
SIR RANDLE.
And advise Madame de Chaumie and Mr. Bertram, with my love, of the
appointment. Her ladyship and I will be photographed with our children
grouped round us.
WESTRIP.
[_To_ SIR RANDLE.] Then there's the telegram from the _Daily Monitor_,
Sir Randle----
SIR RANDLE.
[_Puffing himself out._] Ah, yes! The editor solicits my views
upon--what is the subject of the discussion which is being carried on
in his admirable journal, Mr. Westrip?----
WESTRIP.
"Should Women Marry under Thirty?"
SIR RANDLE.
H'm! [_Musingly._] Should Women Marry under Thirty? [_To_ WESTRIP.]
Reply paid?
WESTRIP.
Forty-eight words.
SIR RANDLE.
[_Rising and strolling across to_ LADY FILSON, _as if seeking for
inspiration._] Should Women Marry under Thirty? [_Humming._] H'm, h'm,
h'm--! [_To_ LADY FILSON.] Winnie----?
LADY FILSON.
[_Looking up at him._] I was considerably under thirty when _we_
married, Randle.
SIR RANDLE.
[_Triumphantly._] Ha! [_Chuckling._] Ho, ho, ho! Capital! Ho, ho, ho!
[_Patting_ LADY FILSON_'s shoulder._] Clever! Clever! [_To_ WESTRIP,
_grandly._] There we have my response to the inquiry, Mr. Westrip.
[_Closing his eyes again._] Sir Randle Filson's views are best
expressed by the statement that Lady Filson was considerably under
thirty when she did him the honour of--er--becoming his wife.
WESTRIP.
Excellent, sir.
SIR RANDLE.
[_Opening his eyes._] Pray amplify that in graceful language, Mr.
Westrip--restricting yourself to forty-eight words--[_He breaks off,
interrupted by the appearance of_ OTTOLINE _at the glazed door._] Ah,
my darling!
OTTOLINE.
Good morning, Dad. [_To_ WESTRIP.] Good morning.
WESTRIP.
[_Shyly._] Good morning.
OTTOLINE.
[_To_ SIR RANDLE_--advancing a few steps, but leaving the door open._]
Are you and mother busy?
SIR RANDLE.
Not at all.
LADY FILSON.
[_Who has turned in her chair at_ OTTOLINE_'s entrance._] Not at all,
Otto.
SIR RANDLE.
[_To_ WESTRIP.] I will join you in the library, Mr. Westrip. [WESTRIP
_withdraws at the door on the left, and_ SIR RANDLE _goes to_ OTTOLINE
_and embraces her._] My dear child!
OTTOLINE.
[_In rather a strained voice._] Sir Timothy Barradell is here, Dad.
SIR RANDLE.
I heard he had called.
LADY FILSON.
So sweet of him to treat us informally!
OTTOLINE.
[_To_ LADY FILSON.] He would like to see you and Dad for a minute or
two, mother----
LADY FILSON.
Charmed!
SIR RANDLE.
Delighted!
OTTOLINE.
Just to--just to bid you good-bye.
LADY FILSON.
Good-bye?
SIR RANDLE.
Good-bye?
OTTOLINE.
Yes; he's going away--abroad--for some months. [_With a motion of her
head towards the hall._] He's in the hall. May I----?
LADY FILSON.
[_Rising._] Er--do.
SIR RANDLE.
Do.
OTTOLINE.
[_Returning to the door and calling._] Sir Timothy----!
[_There is a brief pause, during which_ SIR RANDLE _and_
LADY FILSON _interrogate each other silently, and then_
SIR TIMOTHY BARRADELL _enters. He is a well-knit,
pleasant-looking Irishman of about forty, speaking with
a slight brogue._
LADY FILSON.
[_Advancing to greet him._] My dear Sir Timothy!
SIR TIMOTHY.
[_As they shake hands._] And how's my lady this morning? Are you well?
OTTOLINE.
[_At the door._] I'll leave you----
SIR TIMOTHY.
[_Turning to her hastily._] Ah--! [_Taking her hand._] I'm not to see
you again?
OTTOLINE.
[_Shaking her head._] No. [_Smiling._] We've said good-bye upstairs.
[_Withdrawing her hand._] _Que Dieu vous protege!_ Good luck to you!
SIR TIMOTHY.
[_Ruefully._] Luck! [_In an undertone._] I've never had anything else
till now; and now it's out entirely.
OTTOLINE.
[_Gently._] Shsssh----!
[_She goes into the hall and he stands watching her till
she disappears. Then he closes the door and faces_ LADY
FILSON _and_ SIR RANDLE.
SIR TIMOTHY.
[_Mournfully but good-humouredly._] Ha! _That's_ over.
LADY FILSON.
Over?
SIR RANDLE.
Over?
SIR TIMOTHY.
Over. [_Passing_ LADY FILSON _and shaking hands with_ SIR RANDLE.] It
might be that it 'ud be more decent and appropriate for me to write you
a letter, Sir Randle; but I'm not much of a hand at letter-writing, and
I've your daughter's permission to tell you by word of mouth that--that
she--[_to_ LADY FILSON] but perhaps you can guess, both of you----?
LADY FILSON.
Guess----?
SIR RANDLE.
Guess----?
SIR TIMOTHY.
[_Rumpling his hair._] The fact is, it isn't exactly easy or agreeable
to describe what's occurred in plain terms.
SIR RANDLE.
[_Encouragingly._] Can't you--can't you give us a hint----?
LADY FILSON.
The merest hint----
SIR TIMOTHY.
Hint, is it! Ah, I can manage that. [_With a bold effort._] You're not
to have me for your son-in-law. Is that hint enough?
LADY FILSON.
[_Under her breath._] Oh!
SIR RANDLE.
God bless me! Frankly, I had no conception----
LADY FILSON.
Nor I--the faintest.
SIR TIMOTHY.
And as I've received a great deal of kindness and hospitality in this
house, I thought that, in common gratitude, I ought to explain the
cause of my abrupt disappearance from your circle.
SIR RANDLE.
[_In a tone of deep commiseration._] I--I understand. You--you intend
to----?
SIR TIMOTHY.
To take a trip round the world, to endeavour to recover some of the
wind that's been knocked out of me.
SIR RANDLE.
[_Closing his eyes._] Distressing! Distressing!
LADY FILSON.
Most. [_Coming to_ SIR TIMOTHY, _feelingly._] Oh--oh, Sir Timothy----!
SIR TIMOTHY.
[_With sudden bitterness._] Ah, Sir Timothy, Sir Timothy, Sir Timothy!
And what's the use of my baronetcy _now_, will you inform me--the
baronetcy I bought and paid for, in hard cash, to better my footing in
society? The mockery of it! Now that I've lost _her_, the one woman I
shall ever love, I don't care a rap for my footing in society;
[_walking away_] and anybody may have my baronetcy for tuppence!
SIR RANDLE.
[_Reprovingly._] My good friend----!
SIR TIMOTHY.
[_Turning to_ SIR RANDLE _and_ LADY FILSON.] And why not! The only
advantage of my baronetcy, it strikes me, is that I'm charged double
prices at every hotel I lay my head in, and am expected to shower gold
on the waiters. [_Sitting on the settee on the right and leaning his
head on his hand._] Oh, the mockery of it; the mockery of it!
SIR RANDLE.
[_Going to him._] If my profound sympathy--and Lady Filson's--[_to_
LADY FILSON] I may speak for you, Winnie----?
LADY FILSON.
Certainly.
SIR RANDLE.
[_To_ SIR TIMOTHY.] If our profound sympathy is the smallest consolation
to you----
SIR TIMOTHY.
[_Emphatically, raising his head._] It is _not_. [_With a despairing
gesture._] I'm broken-hearted, Sir Randle. That's what I am; I'm
broken-hearted.
LADY FILSON.
[_Sitting in the low-backed arm-chair on the left._] Oh, dear!
SIR TIMOTHY.
[_Sighing._] If I'd had the pluck to declare myself sooner, it might
have been different. [_Staring before him._] From the moment I first
set eyes on her, at the dinner-party you gave to welcome her on her
arrival in London--from that moment I was captured completely, body and
soul. The sight of her as she stood in the drawing-room beside her
mother, with her pretty, white face and her elegant figure, and a gown
clinging to her that looked as though she'd been born in it--'twill
never fade from me if I live to be as old as a dozen Methuselahs!
SIR RANDLE.
[_Pryingly._] Er--has Ottoline--I have no desire to probe an open
wound--has she assigned any--reason----?
SIR TIMOTHY.
[_Rousing himself._] For rejecting me?
SIR RANDLE.
[_With a wave of the hand._] For----
LADY FILSON.
For not seeing her way clear----
SIR RANDLE.
To--er--in short--accept you?
SIR TIMOTHY.
She _has_.
LADY FILSON.
_Has_ she!
SIR TIMOTHY.
The best--and, for me, the worst--of reasons. There's another man in
the case.
SIR RANDLE.
Another----?
LADY FILSON.
Another----!
SIR RANDLE.
[_To_ LADY FILSON.] Extraordinary!
LADY FILSON.
Bewildering.
SIR RANDLE.
We have been blind, Winnie.
LADY FILSON.
Absolutely.
SIR TIMOTHY.
And, whoever he may be, I trust he'll worship her as devoutly as I do,
and treat her with half the gentleness _I'd_ have treated her with, had
she selected _me_ for her Number Two.
SIR RANDLE.
[_Piously._] Amen! [_To_ LADY FILSON.] Winifred----?
LADY FILSON.
[_Rather fretfully._] Amen.
SIR TIMOTHY.
[_Rising._] And with that sentiment on my lips, and in every fibre of
my body, I'll relieve you of my depressing company. [_Going to_ LADY
FILSON, _who rises at his approach, and taking her hand._] My dear
lady----
LADY FILSON.
[_Genuinely._] My dear Sir Timothy!
SIR RANDLE.
[_Moving to the glazed door._] Painful! Painful!
[_As_ SIR TIMOTHY _turns from_ LADY FILSON, BERTRAM
_reappears, in morning-dress, entering from the hall._
BERTRAM.
[_Drawing back on seeing_ SIR TIMOTHY.] Oh! [_To_ SIR RANDLE.] Am I
intruding?
SIR RANDLE.
Come in, my boy. You're just in time to give a parting grasp of the
hand to our friend here.
BERTRAM.
[_Advancing to_ SIR TIMOTHY, _surprised._] Parting----?
LADY FILSON.
[_To_ BERTRAM.] Sir Timothy is going abroad, Bertram.
BERTRAM.
Really? [_To_ SIR TIMOTHY.] Er--on business?
SIR TIMOTHY.
Well, not precisely on pleasure. [_Shaking hands with_ BERTRAM.]
Good-bye to you.
BERTRAM.
[_Puzzled._] Good-bye. [SIR TIMOTHY _makes a final bow to_ LADY FILSON
_and departs, followed by_ SIR RANDLE, _who leaves the door open._
BERTRAM _turns to_ LADY FILSON _inquiringly._] What----?
LADY FILSON.
[_Pointing to the open door._] H'sh!
[BERTRAM _shuts the door and_ LADY FILSON _seats herself
upon the settee on the right._
BERTRAM.
[_Coming to her._] What has happened, mother?
LADY FILSON.
What I conjectured. I was certain of it.
BERTRAM.
He _has_ proposed to my sister?
LADY FILSON.
Yes.
BERTRAM.
[_Struck by his mother's manner._] She has refused him?
LADY FILSON.
[_Nodding._] She's _eprise_ with another man.
BERTRAM.
Who is it?
LADY FILSON.
She didn't----
BERTRAM.
Is it Trefusis?
LADY FILSON.
_I_ believe it's Delacour.
BERTRAM.
[_Walking about._] Possibly! Possibly!
LADY FILSON.
[_Anxiously._] I do hope she realizes what she's doing, Bertram. Sir
Timothy could buy them both up, with something to spare.
BERTRAM.
I agree, my dear mother; but it would have been horribly offensive to
_us_, I mean t'say, to see the name of Ottoline's husband branded upon
sides of bacon in the windows of the provision-shops.
LADY FILSON.
Oh, disgusting! [_Brightening._] How sensibly you look at things,
darling!
BERTRAM.
[_Taking up a position before the fireplace._] Whereas George Delacour
and Edward Trefusis are undeniably gentlemen--gentlemen by birth and
breeding, I mean t'say.
LADY FILSON.
Trefusis is connected, through his brother, with the Northcrofts!
BERTRAM.
Quite so. If Ottoline married Edward, she would be Lady Juliet's
sister-in-law.
LADY FILSON.
Upon my word, Bertie, I don't know _which_ of the two I'd rather it
turned out to be!
[SIR RANDLE _returns, with a solemn countenance. He
closes the door and comes forward._
SIR RANDLE.
[_To_ LADY FILSON.] A melancholy morning, Winnie.
LADY FILSON.
[_Sighing._] Ahhh!
SIR RANDLE.
[_Producing a black-edged pocket-handkerchief and unfolding it._] Poor
Macfarlane--and then _this_! [_Blowing his nose._] Upsetting!
Upsetting! [_Glancing at_ BERTRAM.] Does Bertram----?
LADY FILSON.
I've told him.
BERTRAM.
My dear father, I cannot--I cannot profess to regret my sister's
decision. I mean to _say_----!
SIR RANDLE.
[_Suddenly._] Nor I. [_In an outburst, pacing the room._] Nor I. I
_must_ be candid. It's my nature to be candid. A damned tradesman!
BERTRAM.
Exactly. It shows my sister's delicacy and refinement, I mean t'say.
SIR RANDLE.
[_To_ LADY FILSON, _halting._] Who, in your opinion, Winnie----?
LADY FILSON.
_I'm_ inclined to think it's Mr. Delacour.
SIR RANDLE.
[_Resuming his walk._] So be it. [_Raising his arms._] If I am to lose
my child a second time--so be it.
BERTRAM.
_I_ venture to suggest it may be Edward Trefusis.
SIR RANDLE.
[_To_ BERTRAM, _halting again._] My dear boy, in a matter of this kind,
I fancy we can rely on your mother's wonderful powers of penetration.
BERTRAM.
[_Bowing._] Pardon, father.
LADY FILSON.
[_Closing her eyes._] "Mrs. George Delacour."
SIR RANDLE.
[_Partly closing his eyes and again resuming his walk._] "A marriage is
arranged and will shortly take place between George Holmby Delacour,
of--of--of----"
BERTRAM.
[_Closing his eyes._] "90, St. James's Street----"
SIR RANDLE.
[_Halting and opening his eyes._] One thing I heartily deplore,
Winifred----
LADY FILSON.
[_Opening her eyes._] What is that, Randle?
SIR RANDLE.
Ottoline being a widow, there can be no bridesmaids; which deprives us
of the happiness of paying a pretty compliment to the daughters of
several families of distinction whom we have the privilege of numbering
among our acquaintances.
LADY FILSON.
There can be no bridesmaids, strictly speaking; but a widow may be
accompanied to the altar by a bevy of Maids of Honour.
SIR RANDLE.
Ah, yes! An equally good opportunity for an imposing--[_closing his
eyes_] and reverential display! [_To_ LADY FILSON.] Lady Maundrell's
girl Sybil, eh, Winnie?
LADY FILSON.
Decidedly. And Lady Eva Sherringham.
BERTRAM.
Lady Lilian and Lady Constance Foxe----
SIR RANDLE.
Lady Irene Pallant----
[LADY FILSON _rises and almost runs to the writing-table,
where she sits and snatches at a sheet of paper._ SIR
RANDLE _follows her and stands beside her._
BERTRAM.
[_Reclining upon the settee on the left._] Lady Blanche Finnis----
LADY FILSON.
[_Seizing her pen._] Wait; don't be so quick! [_Writing._] "Hon. Sybil
Maundrell----"
[_The glazed door is opened softly and_ OTTOLINE
_enters. She pauses, looking at the group at the
writing-table._
SIR RANDLE.
[To LADY FILSON, as she writes.] Lady Eva Sherringham----
BERTRAM.
Ladies Lilian and Constance Foxe----
LADY FILSON.
[_Writing._] "Lady Eva Sherringham--Ladies Lilian and Constance
Foxe----"
BERTRAM.
Lady Irene Pallant----
SIR RANDLE.
I _pray_ there may be no captious opposition from Ottoline.
LADY FILSON.
Surely she doesn't want to be married like a middle-class widow from
Putney! [_Writing._] "Lady Blanche Finnis----"
BERTRAM.
If pages are permissible--to carry my sister's train, I mean t'say----
SIR RANDLE.
Pages--yes, yes----
BERTRAM.
There are the two Galbraith boys--little Lord Wensleydale and his
brother Herbert.
LADY FILSON.
[_Writing._] Such picturesque children!
SIR RANDLE.
I doubt whether the bare civilities which have passed between ourselves
and Lord and Lady Galbraith----
LADY FILSON.
They are country neighbours.
BERTRAM.
No harm in approaching them, my dear father. I mean to _say_----!
[OTTOLINE _shuts the door with a click._ SIR RANDLE
_and_ LADY FILSON _turn, startled, and_ LADY FILSON
_slips the list into a drawer._
SIR RANDLE.
[_Benignly._] Otto?
OTTOLINE.
[_In a steady voice._] Sorry to disturb you all over your elaborate
preparations, Dad. I see Sir Timothy has saved me the trouble of
breaking the news.
SIR RANDLE.
Y-you----?
OTTOLINE.
[_Nodding._] You were too absorbed. I couldn't help listening.
SIR RANDLE.
Ahem! Sir Timothy didn't _volunteer_ the information, Ottoline----
OTTOLINE.
_Peu m'importe!_ [_Advancing, smiling on one side of her mouth._] What
a grand wedding you are planning for me! _Quel projets mirifiques!_
SIR RANDLE.
[_Embarrassed._] Your dear mother was--er--merely jotting down----
OTTOLINE.
[_Passing her hands over her face and walking to the settee on the
right._] Ha, ha, ha, ha----!
LADY FILSON.
[_Rising and moving to the fireplace, complainingly._] Really,
Ottoline----!
OTTOLINE.
[_Sitting upon the settee._] Ha, ha, ha----!
LADY FILSON.
[_To_ BERTRAM, _who is slowly getting to his feet._] Go away, Bertie
darling.
OTTOLINE.
_Mais pourquoi?_ Bertie knows everything, obviously.
LADY FILSON.
Why shouldn't he, Otto? Your brother is as interested as we are----
OTTOLINE.
But of course! _Naturellement!_ [_With a shrug._] _C'est une affaire de
famille._ [_To_ BERTRAM, _who is now at the door on the left, his hand
on the door-handle._] Come back, Bertie. [_Repeating her wry smile._] I
shall be glad to receive your congratulations with mother's and Dad's.
[_To_ SIR RANDLE _and_ LADY FILSON.] Sit down, Dad; sit down, mother.
[SIR RANDLE _sits in the chair on the left of the settee on the right,_
LADY FILSON _in the low-backed arm-chair, and_ BERTRAM _at the oblong
table._] Are you very much surprised, dear people?
SIR RANDLE.
Surprised? Hardly.
LADY FILSON.
Poor Sir Timothy! No, we are hardly surprised, Ottoline.
OTTOLINE.
Ah, but I don't mean surprised at my--having made Sir Timothy unhappy;
I mean surprised at hearing there is--someone else----
SIR RANDLE.
My dear child, _that_ surprises us even less.
LADY FILSON.
Your dear father and I, Ottoline, are not unaware of the _many_
eligible men who are--how shall I put it?--pursuing you with their
attentions.
SIR RANDLE.
Parents are notoriously short-sighted; but they are not
necessarily--er--what are the things?--tssh!--the creatures that
flutter----
BERTRAM.
Bats, father.
SIR RANDLE.
[_To_ BERTRAM.] Thank you, my boy.
OTTOLINE.
[_In a rigid attitude._] It's cowardly of me perhaps, but I almost wish
I had told Sir Timothy--a little more----
LADY FILSON.
Cowardly?
OTTOLINE.
So that he might have taken the edge off the announcement I'm going to
make--and spared me----
SIR RANDLE.
The edge----?
LADY FILSON.
_Spared_ you--? [_Staring at_ OTTOLINE.] Ottoline, what on earth----!
OTTOLINE.
[_Relaxing._] Oh, I know I'm behaving as if I were a girl instead of a
woman who has been married--a widow--free--independent--[_to_ SIR
RANDLE] thanks to your liberality, Dad! But, being at home, I seem to
have lost, in a measure, my sense of personal liberty----
SIR RANDLE.
[_Blandly but uneasily._] My child!
OTTOLINE.
That's _it_! Child! Now that I've returned to you, I'm still a
child--still an object for you to fix your hopes and expectations upon.
The situation has slipped back, in your minds, pretty much to what it
was in the old days in the Avenue Montaigne. You may protest that it
isn't so, but it _is_. [_Attempting a laugh._] That's why my knees are
shaking at this moment, and my spine's all of a jelly! [_She rises and
goes to the chair at the writing-table and grips the chair-rail. The
others follow her apprehensively with their eyes._] I--I'm afraid I'm
about to disappoint you.
LADY FILSON.
H-how?
SIR RANDLE.
Disap-point us?
OTTOLINE.
[_Abruptly._] What's the time, Dad?
SIR RANDLE.
[_Looking at a clock standing on a commode against the wall on the
right._] Twenty minutes past eleven.
OTTOLINE.
He--he will be here at half-past. Don't be angry. I've asked him to
come--to explain his position clearly to you and mother with regard to
me. There's to be nothing underhand--_rien de secret_!
LADY FILSON.
A-asked whom?
OTTOLINE.
[_Throwing her head back._] Ho! You'll think I'm ushering in an endless
string of lovers this morning! I promise you this is the last.
SIR RANDLE.
_Who_ is coming?
OTTOLINE.
[_Sitting at the writing-table and, her elbows on the table, supporting
her chin on her fists._] Mr. Mackworth.
LADY FILSON.
[_After a pause._] Mackworth?
OTTOLINE.
Philip Mackworth.
LADY FILSON.
[_Dully._] Isn't he the journalist man you--you carried on with once,
in Paris?
OTTOLINE.
What an expression, mother! Well--yes.
SIR RANDLE.
[_Simply._] Good God!
OTTOLINE.
He doesn't write for the papers any longer.
LADY FILSON.
W-what----?
OTTOLINE.
A novelist chiefly.
LADY FILSON.
[_Faintly._] Oh!
SIR RANDLE.
Successful?
OTTOLINE.
It depends on what you call success.
SIR RANDLE.
_I_ call success what everybody calls success.
BERTRAM.
[_Rising, stricken._] There are novelists and novelists, I mean t'say.
OTTOLINE.
Don't imagine that I am apologizing for him, please, in the slightest
degree; but no, he _hasn't_ been successful up to the present, in the
usual acceptation of the term.
LADY FILSON.
[_Searching for her handkerchief._] Where--where have you----?
OTTOLINE.
I met him yesterday at Robbie Roope's, at lunch. [LADY FILSON _finds
her handkerchief and applies it to her eyes._] Oh, there's no need to
cry, mother dear. For mercy's sake----!
LADY FILSON.
Oh, Otto! [_Rising and crossing to the settee on the right,
whimpering._] Oh, Randle! [_To_ BERTRAM, _who comes to her._] Oh, my
boy!
SIR RANDLE.
[_Gazing blinkingly at the ceiling as_ LADY FILSON _sinks upon the
settee._] Incredible! Incredible!
BERTRAM.
[_Sitting beside_ LADY FILSON, _dazed._] My dear mother----!
OTTOLINE.
[_Starting up._] Oh, do try to be understanding and sympathetic! Mr.
Mackworth is a high-souled, noble fellow. If I'd been honest with
myself, I should have married him ten years ago. To me this is a golden
dream come true. Recollect my bitter experience of the _other_ sort of
marriage! [_Walking away to the fireplace._] Why grudge me a spark of
romance in my life!
SIR RANDLE.
[_Raising his hands._] Romance!
LADY FILSON.
[_To_ SIR RANDLE _and_ BERTRAM.] Just now she was resenting our
considering her a child!
OTTOLINE.
[_Looking down upon the flowers in the grate._] Romance doesn't belong
to youth, mother. Youth is greedy for reality--the toy that feels solid
in its fingers. _I_ was, and bruised myself with it. After such a
lesson as I've had, one yearns for something less tangible--something
that lifts one morally out of oneself--an ideal----!
SIR RANDLE.
Ha! An extract from a novel of Mr. Mackworth's apparently!
LADY FILSON.
[_Harshly._] Ha, ha, ha, ha----!
OTTOLINE.
[_Turning sharply and coming forward._] Sssh! Don't you sneer, mother!
Don't you sneer, Dad! [_Her eyes flashing._] _C'est au-dessus de vous
de sentir ce qu'il y a d'eleve et de grand!_ [_Fiercely._] _Tenez!
Qu'il vous plaise ou non----!_
[_She is checked by the entrance of_ UNDERWOOD _from the
hall._
UNDERWOOD.
[_Addressing the back of_ LADY FILSON_'s head._] Mr. Philip Mackworth,
m'lady.
LADY FILSON.
[_Straightening herself._] Not for me. [_Firmly._] For Madame de
Chaumie.
UNDERWOOD.
I beg pardon, m'lady. The gentleman inquired for your ladyship----
OTTOLINE.
[_To_ UNDERWOOD.] In the drawing-room--[_with a queenly air_] no, in my
own room.
UNDERWOOD.
[_To_ OTTOLINE.] Yes, mad'm.
[UNDERWOOD _withdraws._
OTTOLINE.
[_Approaching_ SIR RANDLE _and_ LADY FILSON.] Dad--mother----?
LADY FILSON.
Your father may do as he chooses. [_Rising and crossing to the
writing-table, where she sits and prepares to write._] I have letters
to answer.
OTTOLINE.
[_To_ SIR RANDLE.] Dad----?
SIR RANDLE.
[_Rising._] Impossible--impossible. [_Marching to the fireplace._] I
cannot act apart from your dear mother. [_His back to the fireplace,
virtuously._] I never act apart from your dear mother.
OTTOLINE.
_Comme vous voudrez!_ [_Moving to the glazed door and there pausing._]
You _won't_----?
[SIR RANDLE _blinks at the ceiling again._ LADY FILSON
_scribbles audibly with a scratchy pen._ OTTOLINE _goes
out, closing the door._
BERTRAM.
[_Jumping up as the door shuts--in an expostulatory tone._] Good
heavens! My dear father--my dear mother----!
SIR RANDLE.
[_Coming to earth._] Eh?
BERTRAM.
[_Agitatedly._] My sister will pack her trunks and be off to an hotel
if you're not careful. She won't stand this, I mean t'say. There'll be
a marriage at the registrar's, or some ghastly proceeding--a
scandal--all kinds of gossip----!
LADY FILSON.
[_Throwing down her pen and rising--holding her heart._] Oh----!
BERTRAM.
[_With energy._] I mean to say----!
SIR RANDLE.
[_To_ LADY FILSON, _blankly._] Winnie----?
LADY FILSON.
R-Randle----?
SIR RANDLE.
[_Biting his nails._] He's right. [BERTRAM _hastens to the glazed
door._] Dear Bertram is right.
BERTRAM.
[_Opening the door._] You'll see him----?
LADY FILSON.
Y-yes.
SIR RANDLE.
Yes. [BERTRAM _disappears._ SIR RANDLE _paces the room at the back,
waving his arms._] Oh! Oh!
LADY FILSON.
[_Going to the fireplace._] I won't be civil to him, Randle! The
impertinence of his visit! I won't be civil to him!
SIR RANDLE.
A calamity! An unmerited calamity!
LADY FILSON.
[_Dropping on to the settee before the fireplace._] She's mad! That's
the only excuse I can make for her!
SIR RANDLE.
Stark mad! A calamity.
LADY FILSON.
You remember the man?
SIR RANDLE.
[_Taking a book from the rack on the oblong table and hurriedly turning
its pages._] A supercilious, patronizing person--son of a wretched
country parson--used to loll against the wall of your _salon_--with his
nose in the air.
LADY FILSON.
[_Tearfully._] A stroke of bad fortune at last, Randle! Fancy!
Everything has always gone so well with us----!
SIR RANDLE.
[_Suddenly, groaning._] Oh!
LADY FILSON.
[_Over her shoulder._] What is it? I can't bear much more----
SIR RANDLE.
He isn't even in _Who's Who_, Winnie!
[BERTRAM _returns, out of breath._
BERTRAM.
I caught her on the stairs. [_Closing the door._] She'll bring him
down.
LADY FILSON.
[_Weakly._] I won't be civil to him. I refuse to be civil to him.
SIR RANDLE.
[_Replacing the book in the rack and sitting in the chair at the oblong
table--groaning again._] Oh!
[_There is a short silence._ BERTRAM _slowly advances._
BERTRAM.
[_Heavily, drawing his hand across his brow._] Of course, my dear
father--my dear mother--we must do our utmost to quash it--strain every
nerve, I mean t'say, to stop my sister from committing this stupendous
act of folly.
LADY FILSON.
[_Rocking herself to and fro._] Oh! Oh!
SIR RANDLE.
A beggarly author!
BERTRAM.
[_The picture of dejection._] But if the worst comes to the worst--if
she's obdurate, I mean t'say--an alliance between Society and
Literature--I suppose there's no actual disgrace in it.
SIR RANDLE.
A duffer--a duffer whose trash doesn't sell----!
LADY FILSON.
Taking advantage of a silly, emotional woman, to feather his nest!
SIR RANDLE.
[_Rising and pacing up and down between the glazed door and the settee
on the right._] I shall have difficulty--[_shaking his uplifted fist_]
I shall have difficulty in restraining myself from denouncing Mr.
Mackworth in her presence!
BERTRAM.
[_Dismally._] As to the wedding, there's no reason that I can
see--because a lady marries a literary man, I mean t'say--why the
function should be a shabby one.
LADY FILSON.
[_Rising and moving about at the back distractedly._] That it sha'n't
be! If we can't prevent my poor girl from throwing herself away, I'm
determined her _wedding_ shall be smart and impressive!
SIR RANDLE.
[_Bitterly, with wild gestures._] "The interesting engagement is
announced of Mr.--Mr.----"
BERTRAM.
[_Wandering to the fireplace, his chin on his breast._] Philip, father.
SIR RANDLE.
"--Mr. Philip Mackworth, the well-known novelist, to Ottoline, widow of
the late Comte de Chaumie--[_peeping into the hall through the side of
one of the curtains of the glazed door--his voice dying to a mutter_]
only daughter of Sir Randle and Lady Filson----"
LADY FILSON.
"Mrs.--Philip--Mackworth"! Ha, ha, ha! Mrs. Philip Nobody!
BERTRAM.
[_Joining her._] Perhaps it would be wiser, mother, for me to retire
while the interview takes place.
LADY FILSON.
[_Falling upon his neck._] Oh, my dear boy----!
SIR RANDLE.
[_Getting away from the door._] They're coming!
BERTRAM.
[_Quickly._] I'm near you if you want me, I mean t'say----
[_He goes out at the door on the left._ LADY FILSON
_hastily resumes her seat at the writing-table, and_ SIR
RANDLE, _pulling himself together, crosses to the
fireplace. The glazed door opens and_ OTTOLINE _appears
with_ PHILIP.
OTTOLINE.
[_Quietly._] Mr. Mackworth, mother--Dad----
PHILIP.
[_Advancing to_ LADY FILSON _cordially._] How do you do, Lady Filson?
LADY FILSON.
[_Giving him a reluctant hand and eyeing him askance with mingled
aversion and indignation._] H-how do you do?
PHILIP.
This is very good of you. [_Bowing to_ SIR RANDLE.] How are you, Sir
Randle?
SIR RANDLE.
[_His head in the air, severely._] How do you do, Mr. Mackworth?
PHILIP.
[_Breaking the ice._] We--we meet after many years----
SIR RANDLE.
Many.
LADY FILSON.
[_Still examining_ PHILIP.] M-many.
PHILIP.
And--if you've ever bestowed a thought on me since the old Paris
days--in a way you can scarcely have expected.
LADY FILSON.
[_Turning to the writing-table to conceal her repugnance._] Scarcely.
SIR RANDLE.
Scarcely.
PHILIP.
[_To_ SIR RANDLE.] Oh, I am not vain enough, Sir Randle, to flatter
myself that what you have heard from Ottoline gives you and Lady Filson
unmixed pleasure. On the contrary----
LADY FILSON.
[_Gulping._] Pleasure! [_Unable to repress herself._] Unmixed--! Ho,
ho, ho, ho----!
SIR RANDLE.
[_Restraining her._] Winifred----!
OTTOLINE.
[_Coming to_ LADY FILSON _and touching her gently--in a low voice._]
Mother----!
PHILIP.
[_Smiling at_ OTTOLINE _apologetically._] It's my fault; I provoked
that. [_Walking away to the right._] I expressed myself rather
clumsily, I'm afraid.
SIR RANDLE.
[_Expanding his chest and advancing to_ PHILIP.] I gather from my
daughter, Mr. Mackworth, that you are here for the purpose of
"explaining your position" in relation to her. I believe I quote her
words accurately----
OTTOLINE.
[_Moving to the fireplace._] Yes, Dad.
PHILIP.
That is so, Sir Randle--if you and Lady Filson will have the
patience----
[SIR RANDLE _motions_ PHILIP _to the settee on the
right._ PHILIP _sits. Then_ OTTOLINE _sits on the settee
before the fireplace, and_ SIR RANDLE _in the arm-chair
by_ PHILIP. LADY FILSON _turns in her chair to listen._
SIR RANDLE.
[_To_ PHILIP, _majestically._] Before you embark upon your explanation,
permit me to define _my_ position--mine and Lady Filson's. [PHILIP
_nods._] I am going to make a confession to you; and I should like to
feel that I am making it as one gentleman to another. [PHILIP _nods
again._] Mr. Mackworth, Lady Filson and I are ambitious people. Not for
ourselves. For ourselves, all we desire is rest and retirement--[_closing
his eyes_] if it were possible, obscurity. But where our children are
concerned, it is different; and, to be frank--I _must_ be frank--we had
hoped that, in the event of Ottoline remarrying, she would contract
such a marriage as is commonly described as brilliant.
PHILIP.
[_Dryly._] Such a marriage as her marriage to Monsieur de Chaumie, for
example.
SIR RANDLE.
[_Closing his eyes._] _De mortuis_, Mr. Mackworth! I must decline----
PHILIP.
I merely wished, as a basis of argument, to get at your exact
interpretation of brilliancy.
SIR RANDLE.
[_Dismissing the point with a wave of the hand._] It is easy for you,
therefore, as you have already intimated, to judge what are our
sensations at receiving my daughter's communication.
PHILIP.
[_Nodding._] They are distinctly disagreeable.
SIR RANDLE.
[_Conscientiously._] They are--I won't exaggerate--I mustn't
exaggerate--they are not far removed from dismay.
LADY FILSON.
Utter dismay.
SIR RANDLE.
[_Shifting his chair--to_ PHILIP.] I learn--I learn from Ottoline that
you have forsaken the field of journalism, Mr. Mackworth, and now
devote yourself exclusively to creative work? [_Another nod from_
PHILIP.] But you have not--to use my daughter's phrase--up to the
present--er----
PHILIP.
[_Nursing his leg._] Please go on.
SIR RANDLE.
You have not been eminently successful?
PHILIP.
Not yet. Not with the wide public. No; not yet.
SIR RANDLE.
Forgive me--any private resources?
PHILIP.
None worth mentioning. Two-hundred-a-year, left me by an old aunt.
LADY FILSON.
[_Under her breath._] Ho----!
SIR RANDLE.
[_To her._] My dear----! [_To_ PHILIP.] On the other hand, Mr. Mackworth,
as you are probably aware, my daughter is--no, I won't say a rich
woman--I will say comfortably provided for; _not_ by the late Comte de
Chaumie, but by myself. [_Closing his eyes._] I have never been a
niggardly parent, Mr. Mackworth.
OTTOLINE.
[_Softly, without turning._] Indeed, no, Dad!
PHILIP.
[_To_ SIR RANDLE, _bluntly._] Yes, I _do_ know of the settlement you
made upon Ottoline on her marriage, and of your having supplemented it
when she became a widow. Very handsome of you.
LADY FILSON.
[_As before._] Ha!
SIR RANDLE.
[_Leaning back in his chair._] _There_ then, my dear Mr. Mackworth, is
the state of the case. Ottoline is beyond our control----
LADY FILSON.
Unhappily.
SIR RANDLE.
If she _will_ deal this crushing blow to her mother and myself, we must
bow our heads to it. But, for the sake of your self-esteem, I beg you
to reflect! [_Partly to_ PHILIP, _partly at_ OTTOLINE.] What
construction would be put upon a union between you and Madame de
Chaumie--between a lady of means and--I _must_ be cruel--I _must_ be
brutal--a man who is--commercially at least--a failure?
LADY FILSON.
There _could_ only be one construction put upon it!
OTTOLINE.
[_Rising._] Mother----!
PHILIP.
[_To_ SIR RANDLE, _calmly._] Oh, but--ah, Ottoline hasn't told you----!
OTTOLINE.
[_To_ PHILIP.] No, I hadn't time, Philip----
PHILIP.
My dear Sir Randle--[_rising and going to_ LADY FILSON]--my dear Lady
Filson--let me dispel your anxiety for the preservation of my
self-esteem. Ottoline and I have no idea of getting married yet awhile.
OTTOLINE.
No, mother.
LADY FILSON.
When, pray----?
PHILIP.
We have agreed to wait until I have ceased to be--commercially--a
failure.
OTTOLINE.
[_To_ SIR RANDLE _and_ LADY FILSON.] Until he has obtained public
recognition; [_coming forward_] until, in fact, even the member's of
one's own family, Dad, can't impute unworthy motives.
SIR RANDLE.
[_To_ PHILIP, _incredulously--rising._] Until you have obtained public
recognition, Mr. Mackworth?
PHILIP.
[_Smiling._] Well, it may sound extravagant----
LADY FILSON.
Grotesque!
SIR RANDLE.
[_Walking about on the extreme right._] Amazing!
OTTOLINE.
Why grotesque; why amazing? [_Sitting in the low-backed arm-chair._]
All that is amazing about it is that Philip should lack the superior
courage which enables a man, in special circumstances, to sink his
pride and ignore ill-natured comments.
PHILIP.
[_To_ LADY FILSON.] At any rate, this is the arrangement that Ottoline
and I have entered into; and I suggest, with every respect, that you
and Sir Randle should raise no obstacle to my seeing her under your
roof occasionally.
LADY FILSON.
As being preferable to hole-and-corner meetings in friends' houses----!
OTTOLINE.
[_Coolly._] Or under lamp-posts in the streets--yes, mother.
LADY FILSON.
[_Rising and crossing to the round table._] Ottoline----!
SIR RANDLE.
[_Bearing down upon_ PHILIP.] May I ask, Mr. Mackworth, how long you
have been following your precarious profession? Pardon my ignorance. My
reading is confined to our great journals; and _there_ your name has
escaped me.
PHILIP.
Oh, I've been at it for nearly ten years.
LADY FILSON.
Ten years!
PHILIP.
[_To_ SIR RANDLE.] I began soon after I left Paris.
SIR RANDLE.
And what ground, sir, have you for anticipating that you will _ever_
achieve popularity as a writer?
LADY FILSON.
[_Sitting in the chair by the round table._] Preposterous!
OTTOLINE.
[_Stamping her foot._] Mother----! [_To_ SIR RANDLE.] Philip has high
expectations of his next novel, Dad. It is to be published in the
autumn--September.
SIR RANDLE.
[_To_ PHILIP.] And should that prove no more successful with the "wide
public" than those which have preceded it----?
PHILIP.
Then I--then I fling another at 'em.
SIR RANDLE.
Which would occupy you----?
PHILIP.
Twelve months.
LADY FILSON.
And if _that_ fails----!
PHILIP.
[_Smiling again, but rather constrainedly._] Ah, you travel too quickly
for me, Lady Filson--you and Sir Randle! You heap disaster on
disaster----
SIR RANDLE.
If _that_ fails, another twelve-months' labour!
LADY FILSON.
While my daughter is wasting the best years of her life!
SIR RANDLE.
[_Indignantly._] Really, Mr. Mackworth! [_Throwing himself upon the
settee on the right._] Really! I appeal to you! Is this fair?
LADY FILSON.
Is it fair to Ottoline?
OTTOLINE.
_Absolument!_ So that it satisfies me to spend the best years of my
life in this manner, I don't see what anybody has to complain of. _Mon
Dieu!_ I am relieved to think that some of my best years are still mine
to squander!
SIR RANDLE.
[_To_ PHILIP, _who is standing by the writing-table in thought, a look
of disquiet on his face--persistently._] Mr. Mackworth----!
OTTOLINE.
[_Rising impatiently._] My dear Dad--my dear mother--I propose that we
postpone this discussion until Mr. Mackworth's new book _has_ failed to
attract the public, [_crossing to_ SIR RANDLE] and that in the meantime
he sha'n't be scowled at when he presents himself in Ennismore Gardens.
[_Seating herself beside_ SIR RANDLE _and slipping her arm through
his._] Dad----!
LADY FILSON.
[_To_ PHILIP.] Mr. Mackworth----!
PHILIP.
[_Rousing himself and turning to_ SIR RANDLE _and_ LADY FILSON_--abruptly._]
Look here, Sir Randle! Look here, Lady Filson! I own that this
arrangement between Ottoline and me is an odd one. It was arrived at
yesterday impulsively; and, in her interests, there _is_ a good deal to
be said against it.
LADY FILSON.
There's nothing to be said _for_ it. Oh----!
SIR RANDLE.
[_To_ LADY FILSON.] Winifred--[_To_ PHILIP.] Well, Mr. Mackworth?
PHILIP.
Well, Sir Randle, I--I'm prepared to take a sporting chance. It may be
that I am misled by the sanguine temperament of the artist, who is apt
to believe that his latest production will shake the earth to its
foundation. I've gammoned myself before into such a belief,
but--[_resolutely_] I'll stake everything on my next book! I give you
my word that if it isn't a success--an indisputable popular success--I
will join you both, in all sincerity, in urging Ottoline to break with
me. Come! Does that mollify you?
[_There is a short silence._ SIR RANDLE _and_ LADY
FILSON _look at each other in surprise and_ OTTOLINE
_stares at_ PHILIP _open-mouthed._
OTTOLINE.
Philip----!
PHILIP.
[_To_ SIR RANDLE.] Sir Randle----?
SIR RANDLE.
[_To_ LADY FILSON.] Winnie----?
LADY FILSON.
[_In a softer tone._] It certainly seems to me that Mr. Mackworth's
undertaking--as far as it goes----
OTTOLINE.
[_With a queer laugh._] Ha, ha, ha! As far as it goes, mother!
[_Rising, thoughtfully._] Doesn't it go a little _too_ far?
[_Contracting her brows._] It disposes of _me_ as if I were of no more
account than a sawdust doll! [_To_ PHILIP.] Ah, traitor! [_In a low
voice._] _Vos promesses a une femme sont sans valeur!_
PHILIP.
[_Taking her hands reassuringly._] No, no----!
OTTOLINE.
[_Withdrawing her hands._] Zut! [_Moving slowly towards the glazed
door._] You have acquitted yourself bravely, _mon cher Monsieur
Philippe_! [_Shrugging her shoulders._] Say good-bye and let me turn
you out in disgrace.
PHILIP.